This is my first fanfic, so please review. And I hope for nothing harsh.

"Utter incompetence!" Arthur hollered as he kicked in the door dramatically, holding up his ruined jerkin. However, Merlin wasn't there. Nor Gaius; the physician's quarters were empty and quiet, except for the systematic bubbling of an ominous vat in the corner.

Feeling a little foolish, he stepped inside and dropped his arm. He glanced around, halfway thinking that if he just looked hard enough someone might turn up from where they'd been hiding behind a stretcher or a cauldron.

As always the room was strung with pungent herbs and rows upon rows of beady-eyed vials. The shelves housed more books than were surely healthy. The quarters were quite large, nearly the same as both his antechamber and bedroom together, except two stories tall, and crammed full of strange things. He respected the space though. He'd seen his men laid out on the various tables enough to know that the generous size was a necessity rather than a favor to Gaius. During an attack you need as many tables as you can get.

Merlin stubbornly refused to show up. Arthur peeked at various jars and mortars, though he was careful not to touch or lean in too closely. With the room empty he almost felt a trespasser, even if it did lay within the castle. A faint curiosity perked up in him. What was it the physician did with all his tools? What was that thing over there that looked like a bit of glass on a stick?

The bubbling and smells unnerved him. He should probably leave. Except it didn't feel right to just barge in here and poke around without an excuse. Gaius was almost an uncle to him, and his privacy should be protected. Imagine if he were to return now to find the Prince snooping about.

Ah, maybe Merlin was hiding in his room being useless. Arthur could check the bedroom. There, that was reasonable wasn't it?

Except Merlin wasn't in his bedroom, blast him. And his bed was unmade and clothes were all over the floor. What right did Merlin have complaining about having to pick up after Arthur, if he left his own belongings strewn about as if they'd been blown in from a storm?

Grinning viciously, Arthur snatched up a few ragged shirts, fisting them in his hand. They'd be evidence he could throw at his manservant, along with his own shredded jerkin. Seriously, did Merlin just let the dogs play with his clothes? Did he get some sort of perversion from destroying Arthur's things, as if he were getting back at his master somehow?

There was a scrap of paper lodged between some discarded pants, bits of scrawled writing peeking out. Arthur picked it up with his fingertips, curiosity returning. Some medical notes Gaius was teaching to Merlin? Maybe one of those unsettling drawings of the human form with pieces removed? Only done in Merlin's awful drawing skill. That would be a laugh.

It was some sort of script. Terms for medicines, perhaps. "Ligfýr... arwe," he sounded out absently.

The paper sparked on his fingers and he dropped it hastily, but the sparks stayed and flickered up through his hands, through his chest and back, building in strength until they ricocheted through his arms and out in a torrent of sizzling heat. He grunted and collapsed against the side of Merlin's bed as if he'd just been felled by a catapult.

The cupboard was on fire, he contemplated, as he lay there with his ears ringing.

A sorcerer! His brain put together the pieces and he jerked up and hauled himself to his feet, sword coming out and held at the ready. He pivoted wildly, head swinging.

Arthur was still alone, though. That or the wizard attacking him was invisible. Which was entirely possible. "Show yourself!" he hollered, and tried chopping at the air blindly. The potential wizard failed to materialize or be skewered.

He searched about for the paper he'd been holding - perhaps it was enchanted - but it had already caught up the flames as the cupboard spread its malady to the strewn clothing. The fire had a most decidedly magical quality about it, he felt. It was just a little too bright and moving too fast, like a predatory animal hunting for flesh. Cursing, he backed out of the cramped bedroom and hunted for some water to stave off the destruction.

He didn't find any water, but he did find several hundred potions and medicines, most of which were probably very, very flammable.

He closed the door behind him to buy a little time and barreled out into the hallway, calling for guards. Why were they always stationed at the wrong places during a crisis? Seriously, why were they all up on the safe sturdy stone walls instead of circulating the hallways, knocking on doors to ask 'by the way, you're not on fire in here are you'?

Instead he ran into Merlin, hauling a load down the hallway. "Your bedroom's on fire," he shouted in passing. "Try to stall; I'll find help."

By the time he got a team of guards with buckets together and returned, the blaze was out. Merlin was pushing a broom around in the soot. He blinked up at Arthur entering with an appalled expression. "What, I'm so bad a servant that you have to destroy my things?" he sulked. "This wasn't for the jerkin, was it?"

Arthur ignored the comment and peered into the charred room. Not much more had been damaged than when he'd left it. "How'd you put it out so fast?"

"Oh, uhm... Gaius had some fire stopping stuff. You know, chemicals."

Arthur scuffed a boot in the ashes of the clothing pile. The charring was paper thin and broke away to reveal untouched clothes. "They work a treat," he commented. Strange, the floor wasn't even wet. Were Gaius' chemical dry, or had they evaporated?

Satisfied that the destruction was over, Arthur sent the guards away. When they were gone he turned to his manservant soberly. Even though they were alone, he instinctively lowered his voice. "You need to be careful, Merlin, I think someone might be trying to kill you. That blaze was magical, I'm sure of it."

Merlin took a step back and grinned nervously. "What, magic? Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure. There was a paper, it had some sort of enchantment on it, I think." Arthur toed through the remains searching, but all of the papers had gone up quickly and left little remaining. "I didn't recognize the language. I read it and the whole room went up."

Merlin stared at the blackened debris, dumbfounded, then at Arthur with the same glazed shock. "...You did what?"

"I'm fine, don't worry," Arthur reassured him. "But we need to keep a careful eye out. They're probably targeting you because you're my servant. So long as we keep alert they shouldn't be able to target you again, whoever they are." He pondered for a moment, then added "And let's not let my father find out about this."

"Right," Merlin agreed hastily.

They'd gotten Merlin's belongings sorted out in due course and ordered him a few new shirts and bedding from the court tailor, since most of his laundry was at least singed. Arthur didn't bother with replacing the cupboard; it wasn't as if Merlin used it anyway. Without it he'd have a little more floorspace to leave things lying out on.

Merlin acted skittish all evening, dropping things and glancing furtively at the Prince. Arthur pretended not to notice. He couldn't blame him, the poor lad was probably unused to the idea of an assassin wanting him dead. It was different when it was Arthur's life. With him it was just part of how the world worked, always the thought in the back of the mind that anything could be an opening ploy. One couldn't focus on it all the time or you'd go mad. Instead you just keep aware and react when signs crop up. But Merlin was from some backwater village. The only person that'd ever wanted him murdered was probably an ornery pig or the brother of a girl he fancied. Arthur made a mental note to work on his servant's self defense some more. Life was hard enough at court when you knew how to protect yourself.

When dinner had passed and he'd shooed Merlin off for the night, Arthur stood before his fireplace and ruminated. He stayed there for a long time, arms crossed, watching the glowing embers where they banked, sensing the hints of heat on his skin, matching the cool on his back that dropped into a chill as the night came on. All the distant noises of the castle wound down and settled in to rest until dawn.

Finally he held out a finger outstretched and murmured "Ligfýr arwe."

Blinding roaring sparks poured out of his arm and clashed against the stonework inside the fireplace. A few seconds and they died down, and the wood burned a little brighter, crackling.

"Well, hell," he said.