Hello! So I should be working on my 'Musings' collection, but this little plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone, and so I unleashed it and let it have its way. *grins* This little piece is set sometime during season five, but there aren't any spoliers as such. I have a companion shot in mind from Arthur's perspective, which I hope to write and post in the next few days, but in the meantime, here is Merlin, suffering both tortuously and humorously in that way that only Merlin can.

I don't own Merlin. I'd be quite happy if that changed, though...

Merlin shot a fulminating glance of frustration towards the king, and the warlock had to use all his powers of self-control to stop himself from hurling across the room the goblet that was clutched so tightly within the grip of his fingers – fingers that were whitened with tension, and itching to clench into a ball of rage and let loose a punch on the man who was currently seated at his desk, as oblivious to the warlock's tumultuous thoughts as he ever was.

It was rare that the servant allowed himself to feel such rage, and he was unaccustomed to dealing with it. In fact, the only time he could recollect feeling such a primal anger had been when Balinor had been struck down before him, and his reaction had been so instinctual, that he'd never had the chance to even think about controlling himself. The guttural growl that had accompanied the brief, but powerful surge of his magic had happened without thought, and only the collapse of the father he had only just begun to know had been enough to cool the flames of wrath that had allowed him to dispatch the murderer so swiftly.

It was an entirely different situation now. His frustration had been building for some time, and wasn't the result of the shocking circumstances of a parent's death, but something that had been building slowly, starting in Merlin's stomach, spreading upwards through his chest, and was now residing in his throat, threatening to choke the very air from him.

The stupid thing was, that while Merlin had been aware of the tension that was slowly eating at him, and had become increasingly wary around the source of his fears, it had taken something ridiculously mundane to reduce him to the quivering mass of anger that he suddenly found himself to be.

The warlock's fingers tightened convulsively around the object that was almost burning in his hand, the goblet seeming to have absorbed the heat of Merlin's fury, and reflecting it tenfold back into the servant's shaking body.

"For goodness sake, Merlin, stop pouting. It didn't hit you that hard."

Merlin was infinitely thankful that he didn't have the power to shoot flames from his eyes, for surely the glare he sent the king was as fiery as the words he was forcibly keeping inside his mutinous mouth.

Arthur rolled his eyes at his servant's continued silence, and possibly muttered something with the word 'girl' under his breath. Merlin chose not to examine this suspicion too closely, though, for the hold on his temper was already far too precarious as it was.

Instead, the warlock sucked in his lips and bit his tongue, and stiffly lowered himself to his knees, picking up the array of crockery that he had dropped when he'd been startled by the sharp knock to the back of his head that was causing his current near loss of control.

And it really was ridiculous, when all was said and done, because Arthur had been throwing goblets at his servant's retreating form for years now, and it had become almost a daily ritual. Merlin would wake the king, and the king would moan and grumble; Merlin would remind Arthur of his appointments, and the blonde would moan and grumble again. Then there would a short respite as the king ate his breakfast while Merlin bustled busily in the background, followed by Merlin repeating his earlier reminders of endless council matters and such, and Arthur resuming his moans and grumbles.

Really, you could almost set a clock to their firmly established routine.

So it hadn't been any different to any other morning when Merlin had tripped over his own feet yet again, and the king had poked fun at his clumsy friend. And it hadn't been any different when Merlin had retaliated with a sly comment on the subject of sausages, royal bellies, and the usefulness of being such an excellent belt adjuster.

No, that had been perfectly normal, too.

Except, Merlin had still been savouring his parting quip when the king had launched his weapon of revenge, and the warlock hadn't been as nimble as he usually was. The pile of breakfast dishes he had been carrying had crashed to the floor, and it was only the doorframe that had stopped the warlock from following right behind them.

The servant could feel the lump forming on his forehead that had resulted from its abrupt meeting with wood, and didn't need to test the back of his skull to know that he had a small dent there. Small, trifling injuries, if truth be told, but he'd already had a headache that morning, and now his head felt like it had a contingent of knights running rampant through it, poking at him painfully with sharpened swords.

It came as no surprise to the warlock that these imagined knights all looked remarkably like a certain druid who had recently joined Arthur's exclusive inner circle of Camelot's finest, and it was actually rather disturbing to picture multiple Mordreds stabbing away mercilessly at him with their equally multiple swords.

For of course, Mordred was at the root of everything that was causing Merlin to feel so strange at the moment, from the unfamiliar rage that always seemed to be lurking recently, to the nagging ache in his head that he had woken up with that morning that was so obviously the result of the stress he was under.

Merlin gathered the plates together from the floor and rose to his feet shakily, finally releasing his grip on the goblet to balance it atop the crockery in his hands. He was a little dizzy, he realised, and suddenly became aware of a stickiness that was trickling slowly down the back of his neck.

Which was a little odd, because surely imagined knights poking at him with imagined swords could not possibly draw anything more dangerous than imaginary blood.

The warlock suspected that he might be a little concussed, but he was too angry to do more than brush that possibility aside. Plus, thoughts of those imaginary knights were feeding his rage quite nicely, and allowed him not to think too hard about how much he was acting out of character.

"What are you doing?"

Merlin jumped, and dropped the dishes again, only this time they landed with a little more force. The warlock tilted his head and watched with a detached sort of fascination as the plates smashed, and the goblet spun for a few seconds, before rolling away from his line of vision and making its way back towards the man who had launched it only minutes before.

The king sighed, raising his hands in defeat.

"Honestly, Merlin, you have to be the most clumsy, inefficient, bumbling, fool of a servant that I've ever had the misfortune to know. Sometimes I really don't know why I keep you around. There has to be a better way of spending my mornings."

And there was that urge to punch again. And a few more pokes in his head from several smug-looking Mordreds.

"Well don't just stand there, you idiot. Clear up that mess. I take it you do know how to do that?"

Merlin scowled, and muttered angrily to himself as he bent once again to gather the crockery together, piling them carefully in order not to cut his fingers on the broken shards. The warlock was so engrossed in his task that he didn't hear the king approach him from behind, scoop up what was obviously his favourite tool of torment for the day, and tap it several times on the same bloody spot that had already taken a battering that morning, if you please.

Once the imaginary Mordreds – who were now laughing, if Merlin was not mistaken – finished stabbing at his brain, he realised that he now had an array of dancing black spots clouding his vision.

Not to mention a stinging sensation on his fingers.

Great. He'd managed to cut himself anyway.

"Oh, for crying out loud!" said the king, rolling his eyes and pulling his servant unceremoniously to his feet.

At least, Merlin thought Arthur had rolled his eyes. It was a little difficult to be sure when he was currently facing two kings, both of them not only rolling their eyes, but swaying their entire bodies, as if they were drunkenly dancing to a jaunty tune.

Both kings snapped their fingers in front of the warlock, and Merlin swatted at them impatiently. The two Arthurs then muttered an identical curse, but Merlin couldn't decipher it as several Mordreds decided to choose the exact same moment to poke a little harder with their swords, and Merlin couldn't help the pained groan that escaped from his lips.

"Will you stop that?" he muttered, slapping softly at the side of his head, hoping it would dislodge all the tiny little druids, and make them drop those infernal swords.

He wasn't sure if it had worked, but the incessant poking seemed to lessen somewhat, and there now only appeared to be one Arthur in front of him who, when he spoke again, said something that the warlock was actually able to understand.

"You really are a useless lump, aren't you?"

If Merlin had been in a better state of mind, he would perhaps have noted the small, but undeniable traces of concern in the depths of his friend's eyes, but Merlin was not in a better state of mind, and all he heard were words that fanned the flames of the rage that had only temporarily cooled, and when the crockery fell to the floor for the third time that morning, it had nothing to do with a goblet hitting the back of the warlock's head, and everything to do with the way Merlin had thrown them violently into the air.

The resounding crash seemed so much louder than the previous times, but perhaps that was because there was suddenly an ominous silence in the air. Merlin felt vaguely shocked by his own actions, but once again brushed away at the thought that threatened to lessen the fury that was swirling through his body.

A fury that was suddenly concentrated not on Mordred – either the real one, or any of the many little versions hovering in his head, who were now crouched on their haunches, with their swords held up and poised ready to strike – but the man in front of him, who was managing to look concerned, exasperated, and shocked all at once.

Honestly, Merlin hadn't thought the king even knew how to express such emotions, never mind all of them at the same time. It was astonishing, it really was.

Arthur snapped his fingers again, and Merlin felt himself slowly blink.

"Anyone there?" drawled the blonde. "Honestly, Merlin, I sometimes wonder if you have a brain."

The warlock stiffened. Really, that was enough. Quite enough, thank you very much.

"While you, Arthur Pendragon, clearly do have a brain. That of a gnat."

"Excuse me?"

"Actually, now that I think about it, maybe not even a gnat. A flea, perhaps?"

Arthur's jaw dropped, then locked back into place with a loud snap. The king's eyes darkened with temper, and once again, if Merlin had been in a better frame of mind, he might have chosen that moment to wisely close his runaway mouth and remove himself from the king's ire.

But, of course, he wasn't in a better frame of mind, not least because twenty or so mini-Mordreds had dropped their swords painfully loudly in unison, and were now rubbing their hands together gleefully.

Bloody druids.

"Brains of a flea," he repeated, warming to his theme as the fury ceased its choking hold on his throat, and purged itself through the warlock's lips in a vicious stream of diatribe.

"You are, without doubt, the most oblivious person I know," ranted the warlock. "And you don't seem able to use any of the sense that you were born with! You never listen, you never think before you speak, and you certainly never open your eyes, do you? And lets not forget that you never pause to consider that throwing a heavy goblet at someone's head might – just might – actually hurt! But no, it's all a game to you, isn't it? Oh, I know, lets throw something at Merlin, it will be a laugh. But it's not a laugh. And it's not a game. It's actually quite serious, you know, far more serious than your stupid brain seems to think!"

Merlin paused to pull in a much needed breath and, spotting the item still clutched in Arthur's hand, reached out and snatched it from the king's unresisting fingers. Without pausing for thought, he hurled it violently to one side, and was satisfied to see the goblet leave a dent in something other than his head for once.

The king's wardrobe now sported a pleasing little blemish on its hitherto pristine exterior.

"Merlin, you just wilfully attacked the property of the king. That's punishable by a visit to the stocks at the very least."

Merlin slowly cracked his knuckles before thrusting them safely behind his back. The warlock was clearly unravelling – and injured, for crying out loud – and all Arthur could do was fold his arms, glare at his servant, and threaten him with further pain.

Perhaps Merlin was being slightly unreasonable, but honestly, while the stocks were hardly life-threatening, some of those not-quite-rotten vegetables really hurt.

"Brains of a flea," muttered the warlock, shaking his head, then winced as the motion caused those dratted druids to pick up their swords and start poking at him again. Merlin rubbed his temples with both of his fists, hoping the grinding action would crush not only the pain, but all those annoying little Mordreds, too.

"Are you alright?" said the king, and finally, Merlin registered the concern in his friend's voice, and felt a wave of shame wash over him.

For of course, he wasn't really angry about the whole throwing of the goblet thing, and his frustration with Arthur wasn't really the king's fault, seeing as the blonde was completely unaware of the reason why Merlin was so stressed to begin with.

"M'fine," he mumbled, relaxing his fists, and ceasing to press them against his head. He ran his open palms over his face a few times, hoping to remove all the traces of anger from his features, and grimaced when he tasted blood.

"Look, you are clearly no use to me like this," said the king firmly. "I need you to complete all of your usual chores, and while you generally perform them to a rather less-than-perfect standard, you at least manage to do them without leaving bloodstains everywhere. Take yourself off to Gaius, and sort those cuts out. You may return as soon as you're not in any danger of bleeding all over my floor."

Merlin nodded, and paused on his way out of the chambers to pick up the scattered fragments of the plates he had thrown.

"Leave them, I'll summon George," muttered the king gruffly, waving his arms dismissively, and avoiding Merlin's gaze.

The warlock couldn't help but smile a little as he left the room, as he saw Arthur pick up the goblet, slowly examine it, and then frown thoughtfully at the dent in his wardrobe.

Perhaps the king wasn't as oblivious as he'd thought.