Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to the BBC

Notes: One sided slash. My first Merthur fic. I've been quite scared to post one because I love them too much and doubt I have done them justice. But oh well.

Media: TV series obv.

Spoilers: If you squint: the Poisoned Chalice, Lady of the lake, The Last Dragonlord, To Kill A King.

It is known throughout the whole of Camelot that Prince Arthur, the once and future king, will do the crown justice. It is a little less known, however, how much of a prat he can really be. Merlin, the clumsy yet lovable manservant to aforementioned royalty, bears witness to it very single day. How could he not when he attends to the man every day, dresses him in the morning, carries out his chores, joins him on hunts and listens to him whinge like a spoilt child. He knows every little thing about the prince, knows his scars, his smiles, his facades. Merlin knows Arthur better than anyone else and he finds a little sentiment of pride in that fact.

And it hurts a little every time a day goes by when Merlin has to once again live a lie and conceal the biggest part of him. It's not the magic he speaks about; Merlin is used to having to hide that from the world. He has had to practise extreme caution since he first discovered his abilities were not 'normal' by the current social atmosphere of Elador or any of the surrounding villages.

No, he thinks of something else, something a little more damaging and painful than the magic he possesses. He speaks of something a little less controlled and lot more primal. And it is something even he refuses to admit to himself, which makes it ultimately more difficult to do anything.

He sighs. Self-reflection is useless when one knows one must be up and ready before sunrise and has already lain awake the entire night, mind filled with an infuriating blankness. Self-reflection never serves the weary well. He stretches languidly on his lumpy and a little too small cot, head rolling to the side. Blue eyes blink slowly. He is tired, and yet sleep eludes him like a cruel mistress. Merlin has half the mind to cast a spell of some kind, but the logical workings of his brain whisper caution, caution he does well to listen to.

So instead he turns over into his side, restless and weary, his arm curled under his head and closes his eyes in vain, waiting for the sun to rise.

He gives no further thought to the reason for his insomnia, and suffers in silence. Below, in the bowls of Gaius's workroom, Merlin can hear the low, grunting snores of his elder as he slumbers. It's alright for some, is the bitter inner voice's snarl as Merlin, bored, begins to count the singular snores as a way to pass the dull lethargic crawling of time.

He loses count an innumerable number of times, but, even after having to start again over and over, Merlin still manages to reach an impressive eighty-something-or-other by the time the sun peeks its docile head above the horizon, revealing a skyline fractures by small clusters of ramshackle homes and the tall towers and spires of the castle. He sits up, his eyes gazing out the window at the weak morning sun, blessing the cloudless sky with its aluminous presence. And he sighs in relief. Morning brings with it chores, and chores bring a delightful sense of monotony in which he can lose himself and forget the useless and somewhat dangerous things plaguing his mind to date.

He kicks off the thin blanket poorly shielding his body from the chill of the past evening and stands. After a quick wash, Merlin is down the stairs and out of the door before Gaius can even fully awake from his own deep slumber. The elder gentleman can only stare after the slowly closing door with a look of astonishment and confusion.

Merlin makes his way to the Prince's chamber, only veering off course to collect the breakfast tray the kitchen staff has prepared for him. A few scullery maids and the cooks stare at Merlin in ill-concealed disbelief, so rare is the sight of witnessing Merlin venturing into the kitchens to collect the prince's breakfast whilst it is still fully fresh. He flashes his disarming grin to his audience and is on his way before he can be waylaid by chatter or a concerned word.

He ducks his head in greeting to a few maids and servants as he passes, but Merlin rather keeps to himself this morning, a strange sight for anyone used to the amicable manservant. He ascends the staircase and knocks on Arthur's door respectfully before gently opening it. His head peers into the gloom of the room, spotting the prince still curled up in bed, the covers kicked and tangled around his waist, his bared chest slowly rising and falling ad his arms clutching at his pillows as if his life may depend on it.

Merlin allows himself one indulgence – a second to observe the prince in his most unguarded moment, sleeping peacefully. A small smile of affection threatens to tug at Merlin's lips but he quickly stifles it along with any rising emotion he isn't strong enough to be dealing with right now. He closes the door behind him silently, crossing the room, pausing only to push the tray of food and watered wine onto the table before continuing to the large window.

The satin curtains are slightly open, allowing a thin slice of watery sunlight to illuminate the dust in the air. It lacerates across Arthur's sleeping form, but Merlin ignores it, swallows something unpleasant and draws the curtains apart. Arthur flinches in sleep, turning to burying his head into the pillow and muttering something unintelligible. Merlin barely even glances at him as his nimble fingers work the locks of the windows and pushes them open to ride the room of the musty smell of sleep.

"Who are you and what have you done with Merlin?" Arthur's eyes fly open and fix his servant with a suspicious gaze, an eyebrow raised as he sits up. Merlin stares back before shrugging, disappearing from the princes side to appear in front of the man's wardrobe.

"You complain when I'm late, you complain when I'm early." Merlin pokes his head around the wooden door with a grin only half forced. "I just can't win, can I?" He ducks back behind the dresser before he can register the sweet pain caused by the sight of his prince only half clothed. He returns with a few items of clothing kicking the door of the armoire shut. Arthur gives him a disapproving look.

"What?" Merlin leaves the clothes on the side, taking a pain coloured tunic and moving over to Arthur. He keeps his thought in check as he helps the Prince into his clothing before stepping aside to allow Arthur to drop into the high backed seat.

Arthur observes his manservant as Merlin potters around the room, plumping his pillow, tidying his covers, whisking up the odd boot and tunic from the floor and putting them where they belong. He appears very normal, but Arthur prides himself on knowing pretty much everything about Merlin. He knows the man's moods, his expressions and his body language. Merlin has always confessed to being a terrible liar, but Arthur knows that even that is a well-constructed lie. Merlin is perhaps the best liar he has ever known, and it frustrated the future king no end.

"What's wrong Merlin?" Arthur's voice is carefully measured, kept under complete control. But even Merlin can detect a faint tremble of worry. And the guilt gnaws at him. But he swallows it down, turning to his master with a quizzical grin.

"Nothing's wrong Arthur," he says with a nonchalant shrug. "What's makes you think there's anything wrong?"

"You're on time, for starters," the prince replies as he leans forward in his chair, ignoring the lovingly prepared breakfast in front of him. "You're actually tidying my room properly and not just throwing these into corners or cupboards where no one else will be able see them and you look terrible, as though you've had trouble sleeping." Arthur raises an eyebrow. "I'm not an idiot, Merlin, so don't take me as one."

The servant, who had stilled in his movement of collecting the water jug by the side of the bed, coughed and glances at the prince before shrugging and shaking his head. "I never said you were an idiot, Arthur, you say that to me. I simply think you're a prat. A royal one." But his humour is overlooked as Arthur stands, pinning his servant with a focused glare that isn't nearly as threatening as it sounds.

And Merlin swallows because he recognises this look. It's the same expression Arthur gets whenever Merlin does something that shows his loyalty, like when Merlin drank from the poisoned chalice, despite knowing what he said wasn't a lie. His blue eyes are softer then normal, his expression lacking that certain brand of arrogance and superiority only Arthur can achieve. He looks... normal. Common. He looks like a friend rather than a prince and Merlin swallows, opens his mouth to say something and then closes it again. He opts instead to just return the stare as innocently as he can.

"You know, you can tell me anything, Merlin," the prince says in an uncharacteristically gentle voice. "Something is obviously bothering you, and," the prince smiles, trying to inject some levity into an otherwise caring statement, "although it does greatly improve your questionable servicing abilities, seeing you mope around gets everyone depressed. Not me, of course, but everyone else." Those eyes are piercing and Merlin struggles to formulate something to say.

He has so many things he could tell Arthur right now. How about that is in fact a sorcerer, a being borne with the ability Camelot despises so. How about the many, many times Merlin has risked his own life to save Arthurs'? Or that perhaps by moving here, Merlin has had to give up everything he has ever known and rather than showing him glory and beauty, Camelot has only taught him unbearable loss? Camelot has taken Freya, has taken Gwen's father, his father... Or, even better, why doesn't Merlin tell Arthur that he would be more than willing to lose everything and everyone all over again if it keeps Arthur alive and by his side. Not because of the dragon's prophecy and their supposed entwined destiny, but simply because Merlin loves him.

But he doesn't. Merlin knows better than anyone that all secrets are eventually found out, nothing stays silent. But he cannot bring himself to say anything. So instead he smiles and shrugs.

"Thank you Arthur, but I'm fine. Really," he beams. "Nothing to worry about." And that following evening, bone tired, Merlin surrenders himself to another sleepless night filled with pointless self-reflection.