Sequel to "Don't Tell Merlin's Mum...or Arthur's Dad." Part 3 in "The Prat's in Love" series. Youthful angst and hormones abound in Camelot. Arthur and Merlin are barely speaking. Gwen loves two men. Morgana's confused about everything and everybody. Anxiety, insomnia, speculation, self-analysis, humor, slash, and fluff. Minor refs to Season 2.

Chapter 1: Meditations

"Gaius!"

Camelot's court physician turned his head as Agnes, one of the castle cooks, barreled down the hallway in his direction. Caught without his glasses, he couldn't quite make out what it was she was waving at him until she was quite close. The object she brandished in his face turned out to be a rolled up piece of parchment, and her own round and dimpled countenance was flushed with annoyance.

"Well, Agnes?" he said mildly, waiting for her to catch her breath.

"This be from the Lady Morgana," she finally said, "Her be in such a state, poor lovey."

Gaius squinted at the unrolled parchment and could just discern Morgana's elegant and fluid hand. The note was a simple request to forgo breakfast for the foreseeable future; she was fatigued and did not wish to be awakened early. Gaius read it aloud for Agnes, who looked considerably put out.

"Ee baint going to ask her about it?"

"She suffers from nightmares," Gaius replied, realizing that this was hardly a satisfactory answer. "And she has little appetite in the morning."

"Her baint the only one," Agnes almost shouted, and from the tirade that poured from her lips Gaius was able to make out that Prince Arthur wasn't eating well either, and that this sad malady seemed to have extended to other young folk, namely Morgana's maid and the prince's manservant. None of this sat well with the kitchen staff, who were collectively dismayed at the amount of untouched food that had been returned to them over the past week.

Having offered enough compliments to reassure Agnes that her abilities as a cook were indeed highly appreciated, Gaius made his way back to his private chambers and sat down on his bench with such a resounding thump that several glass vials on the worktable fell over with a crash. Really, he was getting to be as bad as Merlin!

With this thought, he took a step towards the little stairway to Merlin's bedroom; one glance from the foot of the stairs enabled him to see at once that it was empty, and in its usual state of total disarray. No doubt he was delivering the crown prince's morning meal, and afterwards he would probably come racing through the door, swallow Gaius' porridge in a single mouthful, and then dash out to the stables to saddle Arthur's horse, or back to the prince's room to polish his armor or some such mundane task. Except that now that he thought about it, Merlin hadn't been spending as much time with Arthur as he usually did, and had been spending much more time in Gaius' workroom than he ever had before. This state of affairs had been going on for a week, and although Gaius had been aware of it he had not given it a great deal of consideration. Until now.

And, come to think of it, of late he had seen remarkably little of either Morgana or her handmaid, Guinevere. As nearly everyone in the castle had become aware, Morgana's nightmares had not abated, and she frequently rose from her bed with a fierce headache due to lack of rest. Indeed, Gaius seemed to be spending most of his time trying to come up with an effective soporific for her. Lack of sleep had also made Morgana testier than usual with Arthur, and their squabbling had become a more or less daily event. Gwen had taken to sitting up with her mistress at night, but she too appeared to be suffering from a form of malaise. She had lost her characteristic sparkle and Gaius, who had seen several generations of young people come and go in the servant's quarters, quite naturally assumed that this had something to do with her feelings for a man. Gaius resolutely refused to even think of who this might be.

Arthur appeared to be carrying on much as usual, leading military exercises in the morning, practicing with every type of weapon known to Albion in the afternoon, hunting during his spare moments, or patroling the perimeter of the castle town when King Uther thought it necessary. But he spent little time in the castle itself, and perhaps even the densest members of the court must have noticed that Merlin was very rarely at his side these days.

If Gwen's problem had to do with unrequited love for a man, Gaius fretted, Arthur's very likely had something to do with his young servant.

As for Merlin, he had not really been his usual cheerful self for the past three weeks–since that unfortunate incident with the bounty hunter and the Druid girl. But could this account for the sudden coolness between himself and Arthur, who, after all, knew nothing about it? Gaius' famous eyebrows drew together as he came close to slapping himself on the head. Why hadn't he seen it before? He had been of the opinion that no one but himself knew that Merlin had aided the Druidess, and that he had done so out of more than just feelings of pity and compassion. Perhaps Arthur had found out? Perhaps someone (goodness knows who) had seen something, and that was why Merlin and the crown prince were on the outs. Why else would Merlin be avoiding Arthur's chambers and hanging about the workroom with an elderly scholar who, in spite of being the closest thing to a father figure that Merlin had, was not likely to provide the kind of companionship offered by his youthful peers. Or by a golden haired warrior-prince who was the most important person in his life.

Gaius was no fool. For years he had been witness to the chaotic ups, downs, and other extremes in the emotional life of young adults. He sensed that the conflict in Morgana's soul had something to do with magic, with the Druids, and with King Uther's inflexibility on both subjects. That the object of Gwen's affections must be someone beyond her reach, a person outside of her social sphere–someone who was clearly not free to return her love–or perhaps a certain would-be knight whose whereabouts were unknown. And that the estrangement (if one could call it that) between Arthur and Merlin must be related to what Gaius discreetly called (although never aloud and only to himself) their preference for each other's company.

Were any physician to come up with a cure for moodiness, lovesickness, and fits of jealousy, he would surely be able to retire almost immediately, with enough gold to last a lifetime, or to buy his own bloody kingdom if he was so inclined.

Gaius closed his eyes and groaned mentally.

For all the aches and pains of old age, he was glad he wasn't young anymore.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Crown Prince Arthur of Camelot was accustomed to the clumsiness of his manservant. He had gotten used to it, even found it rather endearing.

Over the course of the past few days, during which conversation between the two had dwindled to practically nothing, it seemed as though Merlin had suddenly become more awkward than usual. Only that morning he had managed to knock over a flagon of watered wine, which had spilled all over Arthur's half-eaten breakfast.

"You're a walking disaster, Merlin," the crown prince had said, although he spoke without heat and in a quiet voice.

"That's me," Merlin had replied without meeting the prince's eyes. "A catastrophe waiting to happen."

Arthur had made no comment, merely lowering his head to stare fixedly at his plate. It had been several days since he had last rebuked Merlin in the usual way, and Merlin was more than a little surprised to find that he actually missed being called an idiot.

It was an hour since Merlin had left the room, taking the remains of the breakfast with him, and Arthur was leaning against the cold stone of the window embrasure, looking out at the courtyard and his impossible manservant, who was now trying–with limited success–to wrestle a leather collar over the head of one of Arthur's favorite hunting hounds.

Merlin was too far away for Arthur to see him clearly, and the prince backed away from the window–just a little–so that Merlin would not be able to see him if he looked up. Arthur enjoyed watching Merlin when Merlin didn't know he was being watched; when his manservant was at work in his chamber he took pleasure in noting every little change of expression on that narrow face with those mobile features, remarkable cheekbones, and (God have mercy!) that pillowy lower lip. He loved the candor in the slate blue eyes, and on the one or two occasions when he had seen Merlin performing magic, he had been entranced to see those eyes suddenly glow amber-gold. Not that he would ever admit it, of course. Certainly not to Merlin.

Taking another step back from the window Arthur reflected that, in the eyes of most of the world, it was entirely unbecoming for a prince to admit to jealousy when the object of one's passion came from the lower classes. To admit to the passion at all was probably inexcusable from most people's point of view. And jealousy was an emotion that was relatively new to him. Only a week ago he had heard one of the kitchen maids telling a groom that Prince Arthur's young manservant had been seen holding hands with a girl, late at night, in the streets of the lower town–and his stomach had turned to ice even as his mind settled into a cold fury. The very thought that Merlin had a life of his own outside of the castle's sphere was unsettling, although he knew it was hardly wise to be so affected by it, to be so possessive.

To a young man raised among courtiers, accustomed to the automatic deference or even worship of servants and local townspeople, Merlin had become a never-ending source of surprise. Getting to know him had been like unwrapping a present, or peeling the many layers of skin off an onion, and still never quite reaching the core.

"You're like an onion, Merlin," Arthur had once said without bothering to think what this sounded like.

Merlin, not surprisingly, had looked mildly affronted by this comparison.

Putting aside the issue of his magic, how much did he really know about Merlin? And what did he know? That he was clumsy, forgetful (would he ever learn to knock before opening a door?), stubborn (how many times had Arthur told him to stay at home, but he had followed the prince into danger anyway). That he could be irritatingly clueless to the point that Arthur wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him hard.

At the same time, he knew that Merlin got on well with nearly everybody, was friendly, had a good sense of humor. That he might be naive, but that he had much more intelligence than most people gave him credit for. That he was easy to be with, sensitive to others' feelings, but also that he had a temper, witness the roughness of their first two encounters in Camelot. Arthur could still feel the slim, wiry wrist in his hand as he twisted the boy's arm behind his back, remembered the anger in the blue eyes, the thin, flared nostrils, the skin drawing tight over those high cheekbones as he set his jaw, clenching his teeth to bite back a furious retort when Arthur identified himself as the king's son. Since then he had rarely seen Merlin in a state of rage, but he had never forgotten the strange frisson he had experienced when their eyes locked the very first time they met.

"There's something about you, Merlin," he had said after their second, also somewhat violent, meeting. "I can't quite put my finger on it."

Well, in some respects, he still couldn't.

"I'm an open book," Merlin had claimed, much later, although Arthur realized he was anything but. He was a mixed bag of contradictions. A stammering, socially awkward youth with scruffy hair and prominent ears...

(Oh sod it, Arthur, his mind nagged at him, the ears and the haircut don't matter. You know he's a pleasure to look at, as the ladies–not to mention some of your own bloody knights–have noticed.)

...whose seeming frailty hid an iron resolve, steadfast determination, and unshakable loyalty. Whose outward timidity concealed his inner fearlessness. A country innocent on the surface, whose odd assortment of accomplishments Arthur was just beginning to ferret out bit by bit.

There was, for example, Merlin's love of music. He might hum tunelessly all over the place until Arthur snapped at him to please shut up, and he had no formal training of course, but he knew bits and pieces of old lyrics and songs from the Appendix Virgiliana to the poetry of Venantius Fortunatus. He must have had quite a liberal education for a country boy, or perhaps his mother (about whose upbringing Arthur knew little, although he found it hard to believe that she was simply an ordinary peasant) had taught him. Arthur, who was well-read, had also been taken aback by Merlin's occasional reference to the names of classical authors, learned perhaps from some wandering scholar passing through the village of his childhood.

That he was literate at all was surprising, considering his humble background. He could read and write the common tongue, and also had what he called "just a smattering" of vocabulary from old Celtic languages and Frankish, and even a little Latin (the latter gleaned primarily from his studies with Gaius).

Since giving Merlin access to his own private library it had become one of the prince's secret pleasures to watch his young manservant read, ploughing through manuscript after manuscript, his face intent, forelock of black hair tumbling over his knitted eyebrows, slender fingers turning the pages of volumes or unrolling scrolls with the greatest of care. Eventually he would raise his head, eyelids slightly reddened, eyes soft and unfocused, lips parted in the faintest of smiles, and Arthur would have to grip the arms of his chair to keep from doing something untoward, because Merlin was never so desirable as when he was in this bemused and dreamy state.

When it came to matters of love, or, to put it bluntly, when it came to sex–ah, that was the crux of the matter and the reason behind Arthur's ill humor. He knew perfectly well that he had been Merlin's first lover, and by the same token he was aware that he wanted to remain Merlin's only lover. He also knew that this was unfair; after all, he would marry someday (he had no choice), take a woman to his bed (which he had done any number of times before Merlin came into his life), and beget an heir. Well and good–it was his duty. But at the same time, he didn't want Merlin to have anybody else. He had no wish to see Merlin smile, with both mouth and eyes as he sometimes did, at another person, did not want anybody, woman or man, to touch him. Above all, he did not want anyone else to see Merlin as only he had seen him: pale and exhausted but happy, lying with eyes half-closed on the grass of a forest clearing, or on the linen sheets of Arthur's canopied bed.

And now people were saying there was a girl in Merlin's life.

When he closed his own eyes his memory let him feel the warmth of Merlin' breath against his cheek, the silkiness of his ivory skin, the magic (yes, magic) of his embrace, his sensitive touch, the surprising strength in his thin, coltish limbs. The planes, hollows, and sharp angles of his strangely beautiful face. The way his dark eyelashes fluttered beneath Arthur's lips when Arthur held him in his arms. This did not help matters at all.

Not the slightest bit.

Bloody hell!

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Gwen put a final pot to soak in the largest of the kitchen washbasins before turning her head to look at Merlin. He had just deposited the tray containing Arthur's half-eaten breakfast on the table, and was now in the process of scraping leftovers into a pail destined for delivery to the hog pens.

"It looks as though Arthur's appetite is getting to be as pathetic as yours," she commented. "I mean, it's bad enough, you eating like a bird, but when Arthur does we know something's really amiss."

"And the toast wasn't even burnt this time," Merlin replied with a wry smile.

He didn't particularly feel like smiling but he had noticed the dark circles under Gwen's eyes, and what looked like the marks of tears. In spite of the dull ache in his own heart he felt for her–poor Gwen! A servant like himself, kindhearted and pretty, but without benefit of the magic that simmered away inside him, bubbling to the surface every now and then in ways that sometimes (thanks to Gaius' praise for his abilities) made him realize how privileged he was. Here she was, poor girl, bereft of the father who had raised her, an orphan in the court of the man who had all but ordered his death. Fighting the attraction he knew she felt for two men, the crown prince and the mysterious Lancelot. Perhaps even slightly conflicted by feelings she had once entertained toward Merlin himself. His own problems–Arthur was still barely speaking to him–seemed to dwindle in the face of her confusion.

As he walked past her to deposit the bucket by the kitchen door he squeezed her shoulder and saw her eyes brighten a little.

"You taught me everything I know about armor," he ventured, trying to make her smile. "Perhaps a clever girl like you can show me how to make toast without burning it."

"Good lord, Merlin," she replied. a corner of her mouth curving upwards, rising to the bait as he had hoped she would. "It's hardly advanced science. Just don't hold the toasting fork too close to the flame, that's all."

For a moment the most ludicrous image flashed through Merlin's tired brain: himself brandishing a loaf of bread on a toasting fork as the Great Dragon huffed and puffed, deliberately charring it to a cinder with his fiery breath. He coughed and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

"Even if I get the toast right," he continued, "I seem to burn almost everything else. Good job I don't have to cook as well as clean."

"That's why Camelot has a kitchen staff," Gwen retorted. "So that you don't have to."

"I cooked dinner for Gaius last week, remember? He said it was fortunate there was plenty of wine to go with it."

"Just stay away from the cider while you're working," Gwen advised, wincing at the mere thought of any venture by Merlin into the culinary arts. "You can't get intoxicated and cook at the same time. Apart from that, it only takes practice."

Merlin made a mental note never, ever to study his treasured book of magic while attempting to cook a meal...never, ever again. It was a miracle Gaius' kitchen hadn't exploded. Bad enough that the chicken in the stew pot had sprouted an extra head and regrown its feathers.

"Are you listening, Merlin? Gwen said sternly.

"Is that a lead-in to a comment about my ears?"

Gwen had to stifle a giggle. "No...it's just that you probably cook the way you clean. Practice is the key."

"Practice? Ah Gwen, that's not fair," he replied, giving her his most wide-eyed, innocent look. "You know I don't get to actually cook anything for any of you very often."

"Thank God for that," came the tart reply. "Otherwise we'd all be starving."

Merlin was mentally scrambling for a witty response when he noticed that the mournful look had returned to Gwen's face, and she appeared to be nearly on the verge of tears. The urge to laugh left Merlin at the same moment.

"Everything's going to be alright, Gwen," he said gently, trying to meet her eyes without appearing to study her.

Gwen did not even make a pretense of not studying Merlin because she was studying him. Dear Merlin. She had always been fond of him, from the day he first arrived in Camelot and she had looked out of a castle window to witness his challenge to Arthur in the courtyard below. Had she fancied him a little, then? Perhaps so, but since that time he had become a close friend, more like a brother than anything else (adorable as he was, and oh my, didn't he have a lovely profile, she hadn't really noticed before). Now she was all tied up in knots over two such different men... Lancelot, whose smouldering, dark magnificence and undeniable talent as a fighter contrasted with his humility, his sense of insecurity, his tenderness. And Arthur, golden and arrogant, born to greatness, whose basic kindness and compassion were usually very well hidden beneath what Merlin called his prat-ish facade.

Well, Lancelot had pledged his love to her. He had sworn never to love anybody else. And Arthur? He had never told her he loved her, but he had kissed her. He had risked death to save her. In some way, although she was not quite sure which way, he cared about her. Then did he have no feelings for Morgana, beautiful, high-strung, and noble as she was? His childhood comrade with whom he had sparred verbally for years? His eyes occasionally followed Morgana as she walked by; he might argue with her constantly, but he shared a bond with her as well. Yet if Arthur had ever harbored a passion for Morgana, Gwen couldn't see it. At all.

Who else could Arthur possibly love, if in fact (damn him!) he truly loved anyone? It had been a while since she and Morgana had privately voiced their suspicions about the fondness that the crown prince appeared to harbor for his young attendant. It was hidden beneath a brusque demeanor and comments that were far from complementary but it was there, Morgana had insisted, and Gwen had to acknowledge that she was probably right. There was no question that Arthur liked his manservant and depended on him, forgetful as Merlin could be when it came to his household duties and responsibilities. As for Merlin, his devotion (of whatever sort) to the prince was undeniable, in spite of Arthur's high-handedness and sarcastic remarks about idiots and incompetents. Since his arrival at court, a scrawny youngster, he had risen in the estimation of almost everyone except the king, and of late Arthur had openly shown him a kind of rough, brotherly affection almost as frequently as he derided him for his clumsiness. Until a week or so ago they had been almost inseparable, walking together, riding together, the fair head and the dark head bent close together when they spoke. That there was more to their friendship than boyish camaraderie had become increasingly apparent to both Morgana and Gwen over the past several months. (Gwen didn't think Arthur would put up with anyone but Merlin calling him a clotpole.) The girls seldom spoke openly of their suspicions, as word of anything beyond a master-servant relationship could only cause trouble or worse. No matter what her own feelings for Arthur might be, Gwen could never put Merlin in danger. Uther, no doubt, would have Merlin's head on the chopping block before you could say "ax."

Damn Arthur! And poor Merlin.

"The next time you decide to cook for Gaius," Gwen said breezily, just to break the silence. "I think you'd best ask me for some help."

"Whatever," Merlin replied absently.

"No really, Merlin,I'm serious."

""And I'm grateful."

Gwen and Merlin looked each other in the eyes again, smiling brightly. It would have been difficult to say which pitied the other more.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The lady Morgana pressed her fingers against her temples and sighed. Her headache had diminished, thanks to Gaius' ministrations, but her fatigue was almost overwhelming. Listlessly she moved away from her window and let herself fall across her bed, closing her eyes for at least a semblance of rest, and making an effort to sort out her tangled thoughts.

The visions that came to her in the night were terrifying and exhausting, but in the here and now she was beginning to find life in the castle almost impossible to cope with. To maintain her sanity she stayed as far away from the king as possible, seeing him only at mealtimes and for state occasions. In her less confused, more lucid moments she realized that Uther loved her–perhaps a trifle more than he should–and genuinely wished to protect her from the dangers of the world. But she could not face him without thinking of the people he had ordered executed, without thinking of Gwen's father, or of Mordred, the strange child with the impassive stare, and beautiful eyes that reminded her a little of Merlin, although Merlin's eyes were clear as rainwater whereas Mordred's were like ice...a chilling mixture of blue and grey. She had saved Mordred, she, Merlin, and Gwen; even Arthur had helped them smuggle the child out of the castle. But Uther would have killed him, and Morgana could not completely forgive him for that, nor for the deaths of others.

Until recently she had always been able to confide in Guinevere, and her confidences had been returned. But now she felt that Gwen–her dearest friend as well as her maidservant–was hiding something from her. Of course the poor thing was infatuated with that patently gorgeous, here-again-gone-again Lancelot, and was understandably gloomy over the wretched man. Not the most reliable fellow; if he truly loved her, why the devil wasn't he here now? Why not give up the obsession with becoming worthy of knighthood, in favor of a happy marriage to a lovely and loving young woman? However, Morgana suspected that there was a second reason behind Gwen's periodic sadness. Another man, perhaps? Today, for the first time, some strange feeling within her said "Arthur," although Gwen had never said anything to her along those lines, and the very thought of such a pairing gave Morgana a twinge of...yes, jealousy. Although she knew there was no real romantic love between herself and the crown prince, Morgana had always counted on Arthur's (unspoken) appreciation of her beauty, as well as the remnants of a rocky affection that endured from their childhood friendship, and his sporadic willingness to assist her in the face of Uther's hard-heartedness. It was strange, she told herself, that she should feel this tiny spurt of jealousy about Gwen when she suspected it was actually Merlin who had captured Arthur's heart.

Well, if Gwen felt love for Arthur as well as Lancelot, that would explain her recent melancholy, poor thing! And why she seemed to be avoiding any part of the castle she knew Arthur to be in, unless her presence was absolutely required.

And lately, she had noticed, Arthur and Merlin had nearly stopped speaking. Was it because of that peculiar rumor she had heard, that Merlin had been seen with a girl? Not that Morgana put any real credence in rumors. Still, it was obvious that the rumor had coincided with a sudden coolness between the two young men.

So much heartache! So much secret turmoil! Thank God she wasn't in love, Morgana mused, because something that problematic would definitely drive her over the brink. Not that there was anyone within a ten league radius of Camelot whom she would consider remotely suitable. Well, not really. Arthur might be superbly handsome (there was no denying it) but there was too much history between them, he was more like a foster-brother than a suitor, and he generally annoyed her even more than his appearance impressed her.

(Imagine being married to Arthur! Between the two of us, we'd manage to break all the castle crockery within a week, what with throwing things at each other's heads. We'd be in and out of Gaius' infirmary on a regular basis.)

There were no personable young men of her own rank in the immediate vicinity of the castle, unless one counted Arthur's coterie of young knights, and Morgana had always regarded them as mere children on temporary loan from neighboring kingdoms. As for personable young men who were definitely not of her rank, there was really only Merlin. In spite of their vast difference in social status, he was the only male person of her age who had ever treated her with the friendliness of an equal, who had spoken to her with complete frankness and a total absence of the groveling one might expect from a young provincial from a country village. Did she find him attractive? She knew that he liked and admired her, although that was probably as far as his feelings went. His shy inquiries after her health, his short-lived habit of bringing her flowers, and above all his attempts to help her make contact with the Druids had moved her more than she could say. He was aware that she had...well, some form of magical ability, yet he did not seem repelled by this and she was confident that he would say nothing to anyone about it. And yes, he was attractive. His somewhat waif-like good looks, coupled with a coloring similar to her own, held up nicely even when compared to the stalwart and solid masculinity of Arthur or Lancelot. But if her heart fluttered just a little from time to time when Merlin smiled at her, that was all. In any event, her head and her instinct told her that he belonged to Arthur, heart and soul.

Honestly, all of this was enough to put a girl off the idea of romance, for life.

Sighing, Morgana reached up and put her long, black hair back from her face with trembling hands. There was little sense in lying about when she could not sleep. Returning to her window, she stared out at the cloudless sky, and then down to the paving stones below. At one end of the courtyard she could see a frowning Gaius conversing with one of the grooms while his eyes flickered back and forth. Following his glances she identified three figures at various points of the walled-in space: Arthur talking with his captain of the guard and displaying a studied nonchalance, Gwen carrying a basket of fruit from the market, and Merlin with several of the castle hunting hounds on leads. Even from her vantage point it was plain as day that all three were making a concerted effort not to look in each other's direction. As she watched, Gaius gave a visible shrug–his equivalent of throwing his hands up in the air–and stalked off toward the entrance to his workroom. None of the three noticed. With her first humorous thought of the day, Morgana imagined that he must have been longing to knock all of their heads together with a good, solid thwack.

She would have been right.