An unexpected snow hit Camelot that autumn, and Merlin hated every part of it. He hated trudging through the slush every morning to get to Arthur's chambers, and getting yelled at by the prince for making his floors wet. He hated trying to light fires with damp wood. He hated his room having become such an ice box that Gaius was now performing experiments in it with concoctions that needed to be chilled to work. He hated how Arthur bundled up each morning in a deer-skin jerkin and pelt, and went out to train in the yards before the sun had come up, which were inert under two solid feet of white powder. It was so cold at the time Arthur came out (dragging Merlin with him, no less) that even those people who needed to be up at dawn for their businesses were still fast asleep, huddled in their beds for warmth.

So, it was that when Arthur announced that they were going on an overnight hunting trip, Merlin refused to speak to him for the first hour or so. He plodded through the icy drift, hating Arthur from behind, even more than he was hating the snow or the icy breeze.

The prat had the gall to wear two pairs of gloves. Two.

Merlin kept his hands tucked up in his armpits where the last vestiges of warmth in his body had seemed to coalesce, until such a time that the cold inevitably came to leech them away.

"Y-you," Merlin hissed sinisterly, staring at Arthur's straight and fur-protected back, "Are…an ass."

Arthur, who after a month of Merlin being his manservant, had become woefully used to the insults, and could only laugh,

"The cold's good for you, Merlin!"

"So is a good beating," Merlin mumbled under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," Merlin called.

"I gave you one of my cloaks," Arthur offered.

"Yeah, your old one that the rats had gotten into," Merlin replied, hugging the hole-riddled garment closer to himself. It snagged on one of his nails, however, and Merlin hissed as blood spread out onto his fingertip. He brought it to his lips.

"It's warm though, isn't it?" Arthur asked, as if he actually believed it.

Merlin spat a mouthful of blood onto the snow,

"If it makes you feel better," he grumbled. Arthur turned around at the sound, and frowned at the pink blemish Merlin had created,

"What did you do?"

Merlin sneered at him, and squeezed his throbbing finger,

"Gee," he growled, trudging farther up the path, past an unimpressed looking prince, "I wonder? Could it be that-Ack!" Merlin cried out as the ground gave way beneath him, his ankle twisted with a pop, and he went toppling down the slope.

Merlin tucked in his neck and tried to brace himself against the onslaught of branches and sapling trees. Snow assaulted him, bludgeoning his nose and throat, and leaping into his clothes. He shut his eyes against the dizzying world of white around him.

Finally, the ground evened out and Merlin slowed to a stop at the bottom of the hill.

He gazed up at the sky, freezing and winded, face stinging from the cold.

A few moments passed by where he huffed in the mid-morning sun, and wondered if that twinging pain in his ankle was something he should investigate.

"Merlin!" Arthur called from some ways up the slope.

Merlin rolled his stiff neck to the right, and saw that he had landed next to a large, frozen pond, which glimmered in the sunlight.

"Merlin," Arthur said, skidding down to Merlin's side, and staring down at him with a strange mix of amusement and mild concern, "You alright?"

Merlin squinted up at him,

"Well, I'm not dead."

"Might have been," Arthur responded, holding out his hand for Merlin to take, "When you didn't get up, I thought you must be unconscious."

"That would be nice," Merlin sighed, face burning with embarrassment. He wrestled an arm free from the heavy clumps of snow now packed onto his clothes, and clasped Arthur's hand. The prince, now smiling smugly, heaved him upward.

But, the moment he did, a shock of pain lanced up Merlin's leg from his ankle. He cried out, and Arthur dropped him back into the snow as if he'd been burned.

"My ankle," Merlin grinded out after he'd caught his breath. Arthur frowned, and knelt down in the snow.

Merlin felt him take off his boot, and could only offer a wordless grunt of displeasure.

"Looks like you must have sprained it."

"Brilliant," Merlin wheezed through his teeth as Arthur prodded the swollen limb.

"Well," Arthur sat back, swiping a wrist across his brow, "The cave is only a few minutes from here. I could take you there and come back for the supplies. But then, they might be eaten by animals," he rubbed his chin.

Merlin narrowed his eyes at the prince's calm demeanor,

"You're not mad?" he asked, sure he would have been lectured for being a clumsy idiot and ruining the whole trip, by now. Arthur gave him sly, condescending look,

"I can hunt without you, Merlin," he said, "I just brought you along because I thought it might make you miserable."

Merlin almost laughed, except Arthur had shoved his boot back on, and he was afraid of biting his tongue,

"Well, you got your wish," he gasped.

"But, I can't leave you here all night, is the problem," Arthur continued, "I could take our supplies up to the cave, and then come back for you."

He didn't sound like he was asking, but Merlin knew he was. He grabbed a nearby sapling, and pulled himself into a seated position, gazing out across the pond. He wanted to say that he could walk without Arthur's helps, but he knew that he'd probably only end up taking another spill.

"Go. I'll be fine," he said, teeth starting to chatter a bit. Arthur nodded, and slapped Merlin on the knee,

"Sit tight," he announced, and stood. Merlin watched him trot up the slippery slope until his furry back disappeared over the top and into the snow-blanketed trees. He blew up his cheeks, and leaned back against the snow.

He could feel the snow inside his clothes melting down and trickling onto his skin. He shivered, and crossed his arms over his chest.

A minute or two passed, and Merlin's mind began to wander. A whole month working as Arthur's manservant. What had at first been a hellish occupation had slowly become something tolerable, and even enjoyable at times. Arthur was an outright prat, and didn't bother to hide it, least of all to Merlin, whom he seemed to enjoy creating trouble for any chance he could. But, he had a good heart. Merlin had seen that almost right away, and aside from the occasional real annoyance (such as foul weather being a trigger for a gratingly chipper mood in the prince), Arthur actually turned out to be good company every now and then. Despite their difference, the two were forming an unlikely friendship of sorts.

And the prat still had no inkling of Merlin's magic. The warlock congratulated himself with a small smile.

But, his inward pleasure didn't last long.

A strange, sad sound began to fill the icy glade, and Merlin's eyes shot open. He looked towards the pond, and stiffened.

A small, scruffy mutt, still a puppy from what Merlin could see, was limping out onto the ice, dragging one limp paw behind it. It let out soft, little whines that incurred a surge of pity which had him sitting up straighter.

He could see a trail of spotted red had followed the poor thing on its trek from the woods onto the frozen water. Merlin chewed his lip. He started to mutter a spell to bring it over, so he might try some healing, but thought better of the idea. If he levitated it, the dog might start to struggle, and injure itself further. The trip over might not be in its best interests, either.

Bracing himself, Merlin grabbed the nearby young tree, and began to stand. He made sure to keep the weight off his injured ankle, and hopped on one foot to gain his balance. Bending to grab a few handfuls of snow, he packed them in with his injury to keep it still, and maybe prevent further swelling. Though, it was probably too late for that.

Damn it, he thought, Should have done that earlier. Gaius will be disappointed.

Clenching his jaw in determination, Merlin hobbled out onto the ice, hands at his sides to steady himself. The tiny dog had stopped moving, and was now sitting in the middle of the pond, licking its wounds and keening in pain, though Merlin still couldn't get a good look.

"Hold on. Don't run off," Merlin grunted under his breath, staring down at the ice in trepidation. It was thick enough that he couldn't see where it ended, so he knew that must be a good sign.

He continued on, nearly biting his cheek from the sharp pain driving up his calf every time he put the slightest weight on it. He knew sprains weren't a huge deal and could heal quickly, but damn it if they didn't hurt.

Finally, he reached the puppy's side, and knelt down next to it carefully, his breath making clouds in the frigid air.

"Hello, little one," he greeted, out of breath. The dog temporarily pulled away from the wound that was, thankfully, only on its hind leg, to look at Merlin. Its eyes were a liquid, dark brown, and Merlin smiled a little at them. Then, it turned back to licking. Merlin stroked its tawny back a few times, carding his fingers through the wet fur, and gently worked the dog's tiny maw away from its injury. He was aware that the dog might bite him, but knew he needed to see better.

Luckily, the dog was either too weak, or too nice to do much other than nuzzle his palm. Merlin smiled.

It was a flesh wound, but a deep one. Several layers of flesh had been torn off, leaving an unsightly gash, and Merlin thought he could even see a bit of bone poking. He also noted that the dog was, indeed, a boy.

Merlin was filled with sympathy.

"That must hurt an awful lot," he crooned, and the dog whimpered, almost as if it were confirming. Merlin smiled gently, and stroked the gray fur a few moments longer.

"I'm going to get you back to land, and heal you up a bit, alright?" he said, eager to get off the ice. The dog rubbed its glistening nose, and Merlin sniffed, his own nostrils a bit wet and drippy.

"Come on," he said needlessly, and gently picked him up. The dog, once again, didn't react much, except to wriggle in discomfort as Merlin held him to his chest. The warlock grinned down at him, a bit delighted, despite himself.

He took a step forward, and the ice groaned beneath him.

Merlin froze in place, heart speeding up inside of him. He waited, breathless in the heavy silence.

Then, there was a long, ominous creaking noise, and a sound like muted thunder. All underneath his boots. Merlin swallowed, fear pressing his lungs together.

"Merlin!"

Arthur was plodding down the slope, looking very confused and annoyed at the sight of his manservant in the middle of a frozen lake,

"What on earth are you doing, you idiot? Get back here before that gives out!" he shouted.

Merlin stared back at him in wide-eyed dread, but also hope.

The dog in his arms let out a little howl. Merlin swallowed past the lump of terror in his throat, and opened his mouth to shout to his prince, who was still descending the snowy incline with a look of anger on his face.

"Arthur-," he began-

-and plummeted into darkness.

…

Arthur saw his manservant, with some kind of furry bundle in his arms, fall through the ice with a mighty crack and his heart kicked into overdrive,

"Merlin!" he shouted, shooting down the slope in a dangerous sprint until it wasn't fast enough and he just slid, "Merlin!" He cried again, as he saw snow-caked arms and a raven head flail in the dark circle of water.

It would be too cold. Too cold to swim, too cold to scream. Arthur's old cloak was wool and heavy, he knew. Like a bag of rocks tied to Merlin's feet.

Arthur plopped onto the ice, and wriggled out on his belly, boots scraping trails in the frosty ice.

"I'm coming, Merlin!" he bellowed, heart beating on his ribcage, "I'm coming! Hold on!"

Merlin let out a gurgling scream which was cut off by the sloshing water, and Arthur felt an urgent hand of fear clasp around his throat,

"I'm coming, Merlin!" he repeated, with the voice he used in practice on his knights, reassuring and strong, hoping to God the boy could hear him, "I'm coming," he said again, more to himself.

Finally, he reached the circle of jagged, broken ice, and Merlin was blessedly still breaking the surface, gasping, eyes wild like a frightened deer.

"I'm here, I'm here," Arthur chanted, getting as close as he dared, and holding out his arms for Merlin to grab, "Take my arms, Merlin! Quickly, take my arms!"

But Merlin's clumsy, uncoordinated thrusts for Arthur's offered limbs were thwarted by the laden coat around his shoulders.

Arthur, fighting an ever-growing call for panic, was about to shout at him, but Merlin, remarkably, was able to figure it out.

He quickly shed the heavy cloak, movements sluggish but frantic, and hooked both his arms over one of Arthur's, mouth gaping and gasping like a landed fish.

"Good! Good!" Arthur cheered, struggling to hold the weight and not slip in himself. Only then did he notice the other creature in the water, which was paddling furiously in the near-black waves, in a halo of its own fur.

Using all the strength he could muster with no leverage, Arthur started to pull Merlin over the edge, roaring from the effort. He couldn't lift him, though, and the prince cringed to see the sharp ice slice through Merlin's blue shirt and create dark stains of blood as he slowly extricated him from the water.

Merlin, weak as he was, tried to help by straining and kicking himself onto the ice.

It took an eternity, in which several times they were both nearly claimed by the frigid lake, but finally, blessedly, Merlin slid out completely, and lay shuddering and heaving for air by Arthur's side.

"T-t-t-t-the…d-d-dog…" he somehow managed to stutter out, face alarmingly blue, and Arthur, barely allowed a second of relief, turned back to the water.

The poor, stubborn thing was still struggling for life at the surface, though it was sinking in and bobbing back up in a way that spelled its fate.

"We'll come back for it," Arthur probably lied, knowing the ice wasn't safe and he had to get Merlin to land as quickly as possible.

The pair wormed and crawled their way in agonizing slowness back to the snowy shore, both trembling from cold.

Arthur held onto Merlin's elbow, who was shivering so hard that he could barely move himself. Arthur glanced at his face again and again, not knowing what to make of his purple lips and quivering, clacking jaw, but not liking it.

Trying to maintain his calm, Arthur eventually dragged the two of them onto the bank,

"What the hell were you thinking?" he shouted, and Merlin cringed away from the noise, looking irritated by it, if one could look irritated in a state of hypothermia. Arthur cursed vehemently, and glanced over his shoulder out of instinct.

To his utter surprise, the dog had somehow pulled itself from the water, and was limping after them in a dripping, sodden mess.

It moved, though, like its limbs weren't cooperating, and Arthur knew that its escape might not have meant anything after all.

Merlin lay in the snow, bone-snapping shakes penetrating every part of his body, and Arthur stared down at him, unsure of what to do. Gaius and Camelot were half a day's walk from here, and right now, that seemed an eternity away.

The cave, was his immediate thought, Blankets, food. I can make a fire.

Okay, so they had to get to the cave.

And Arthur was wasting precious time thinking. He knew that you had to act quickly in a situation like this, but he had no idea how.

"Merlin," he called urgently, and the boy's fearful, drooping eyes flicked towards him. He had his hands curled up claw-like at his chest, and Arthur wondered if he could even feel it. The thought made him suddenly woozy, and Arthur had to swallow it down. This was an emergency. Merlin was an injured soldier. He could do this. "Merlin, can you walk?" he asked.

It took a few seconds, long enough for Arthur to become concerned, but Merlin finally shook his head an infinitesimal amount. Arthur sighed, and pinched his eyes,

"Okay," he said, "Okay, okay. What do I do?" he asked his manservant, trying not to think of all the horrible ways his body could be shutting down from the cold the longer Arthur continued to be useless, "Do I keep your clothes on you?"

Merlin shook his head again, this time seeming more awake,

"I-I-I-d-don't…kn-know," he said, and the words struck a chord of despair in Arthur that left him grasping for ideas.

He tried to keep his mind focused on the one thing he knew for sure. The cave. They had to get to the cave.

"Alright," Arthur said, acting now out of pure instinct than anything else, "We can talk about your endless stupidity later," he ripped his own cloak off, and wrestled Merlin's fitful body into it, "First, we're going to get you warm."

Bracing himself the best he could, Arthur bent down, and with a great deal of maneuvering, somehow managed to lift Merlin up onto his shoulder. He staggered under the weight, puffing loudly in the silent wood to steady himself.

Merlin seemed to be doing all he could to keep his shakes minimal, and he trembled rapidly enough to almost make a hum in Arthur's ear.

"'M-m-m…s-s-sorry," the boy whispered, and Arthur could only nod, hoping Merlin felt the gesture. He had to focus on keeping the idiot alive for now, and could worry about his feelings later.

There was no more conversation between the two of them in the twenty minutes or so it took Arthur to ascend the slope, when it would have taken one normally. Several times he lost his balance, or his foot slid on a wet chunk of snow, and the two of them went careening back down the hill. Each time Arthur would rush to Merlin's side, afraid the clot had hit his head, or had fallen asleep, but each time he breathed a sigh of relief to see that his manservant appeared to be fighting, and stayed shivering and awake through the whole ordeal.

Though, the longer it took the more pale he became, and the less of a response Arthur could get from him. A few times he had to slap Merlin's cheek and shout into his face to get the boy's eyes to focus, though he never completely lost consciousness.

Arthur simultaneously cursed and blessed the sun for probably being the only thing keeping Merlin alive at this point, but also making his ascent of the slushy slope even more difficult than it should have been.

To make matters worse, the dog had long since managed to struggle its way up the incline, and was now sitting at the edge, gazing down at Arthur as he tried and failed again and again to heave himself up onto the path.

Eventually, it did happen though, and Arthur, panting and soaked with sweat despite the freezing temperatures, had no time to celebrate. He resituated Merlin onto his back (his shoulder had long since gone numb from pain, and Arthur feared its dislocation at any minute) and jogged up the icy trail, careful not to slip.

The rest of the way went quickly compared to that first leg of the journey, and Arthur reached the cave before the sun had even begun to set.

The insulated shelter was nearly hidden in its icy knoll of rock, and tall tightly-bunched trees, but Arthur knew the place well and spotted it right away. He came here every winter with a few of his knights to hunt and tell stories around the fire, and it never got old for him.

He had actually been looking forward to roasting a hare on the spit with Merlin, and maybe swapping a story or two. Arthur would never admit it, but he'd begun to enjoy the manservant's incredibly disrespectful company, and even looked forward to the occasional spouts of angry banter between the two of them.

He knew that wouldn't be happening now, and the reason why made his stomach twist in a way he would never have anticipated.

Heart throbbing in his throat, Arthur ducked low to enter into the cave, and sighed gratefully at the mound of dry twigs, sticks, and logs that he had left there from last year in preparation for this one. A pile of their supplies lay nestled in the far corner.

He really did look forward to these trips. Arthur could feel a creeping despair rising up into his chest from how sour things had turned, and how potentially worse they could become in these next few hours before midnight.

Groaning, he knelt down by the bumpy, moist wall of the cave, and carefully rotated Merlin off of his back. He laid him down gently on the stone floor, as close to the fire pit as he could without having to fear Merlin would catch on fire later that night.

The boy shook violently, eyes roving about the cave in a sort of mad haze that lit Arthur's stomach with worry. He placed his palm on Merlin's brow, and felt a scowl appear on his face at the heat radiating off of him.

A fever. That didn't seem right.

He shook his head, trying to rid himself of unnecessary thoughts, and stood.

It took him only a few moments and a well-placed strike against the steel of his sword to light the fire. He fed it a bit, then hurried back to Merlin, and began stripping him down.

He thought of preserving his manservant's privacy, but decided it was a superfluous task and disrobed Merlin without conjecture.

Merlin didn't react much to the loss of his clothing, just stared across the cave with a far-away look in his bleary eyes, and Arthur wondered if he should be relieved or concerned.

When he peeled off Merlin's shirt, he saw the source of the fever. Arthur cursed himself for having forgotten the cuts Merlin suffered when he was pulled out of the ice. The scrapes were raw and red and inflamed. Mud and snow were smeared across his whole torso, and the wounds were no exception.

Merlin shivered, half-naked and bloody in the near-darkness.

Arthur sat for a moment or two, clutching his own hair, mind empty of any plan as all that had happened began to wash over him.

He slapped himself on the thigh and went back to work.

He filled one of their pans with fresh snow from outside, and set it over the fire to melt and boil. In the meanwhile, he laid blanket after blanket over Merlin, and set his wet cloak by the fire, so he could eventually add that on as well.

At some point, the dog came limping tiredly into their cave and laid down by the fire, but Arthur was too absorbed in his tasks to pay it any mind.

He checked the water periodically, checked Merlin periodically, occasionally laid another log on the fire, occasionally glanced outside to watch the setting sun and gauge how much daylight there was left. All the while, Merlin wasn't silent, groaning under his breath, or offering a slurred phrase here or there that Arthur would respond to with a hum, or a one-word answer. He couldn't be sure that Merlin was coherent, or even knew Arthur was there, and the prince was far too busy keeping busy to put his focus on it.

At least, that's what he told himself.

The dog lay by the fire, breathing shallowly, its fur slowly growing dry and halo-like around it.

Arthur thought he should eat some. And so he did. Reluctantly.

Eventually, the water came to a boil, and Arthur grasped the pan with his sleeve for protection. He set it down by Merlin, and using a rag, lifted the covers off him, and cleaned out the cuts.

He didn't know what worried him more, that Merlin didn't even flinch, or that the manservant set off on a string of fearful and confused babble that did away with any uncertainties Arthur had on whether or not his servant was delirious. Arthur, hardly hearing himself, said a few soothing words as he poured the rest of the still-warm water into a canteen.

Merlin was still shivering when Arthur tried to give him some water, but his skin was only getting bluer, and he was burning to the touch. Arthur didn't know if he was getting better or worse, and was in very close danger of becoming overwhelmed when Merlin swallowed the water, but threw it up not a minute later in a puddle of bile by his cheek.

Arthur resituated him a bit away from it, then took a bag of the very simple herbs Gaius always gave him for hunting trips from their supplies and rubbed it into a sticky poultice. He applied it to Merlin's wounds, again with no reaction.

Unhappy with the haphazard way the blankets were around Merlin, Arthur uncovered his manservant, and then literally rolled him into the blankets one by one until he resembled one of Arthur's breakfast sausages.

He tried to feed him again, several times, but each time Merlin either clenched his shuddering teeth, or moaned and rolled his head away from it. Arthur didn't force it in, afraid Merlin would just be sick again and dehydrate himself even more.

Eventually, the sky darkened into its darkest blue, and the clouds became a striking violet. The activity in the cave died down to an almost complete silence, but the restless buzz in Arthur's head didn't.

He sat by the fire, leg bouncing on the ground in front of him, trying to think of something else he could do.

Merlin lay on the adjacent side of the fire, light flickering over his pale and haggard features.

He still wasn't asleep, gazing unseeingly into the flames, lips moving, but no words coming out. At least, nothing Arthur could understand. It all sounded like gibberish to him.

Merlin was still shivering, and Arthur didn't know if it was still the cold, or if the fever was causing him to tremble. He didn't know if the paleness of his skin meant that Merlin wasn't getting warmer, or that he was just sick.

So, he sat, and he waited, watching the boy intently as his eyes slowly fell shut from exhaustion.

The dog lay nuzzled against Arthur's leg, trembling and sneezing and occasionally letting out a small sigh. Arthur kept one hand rested on it, his mind back in Camelot, with his bed and tub, and an old physician who would know exactly what to do right now.

Despite his efforts to the contrary, Arthur drifted off to sleep, his last thoughts of Morgana, who would be worried sick right now if she knew what had happened…

…

Arthur awoke with a jolt to the sound of a loud thump, and peered around the darkness of the cave, his heart pounding.

The fire was still going strong, so he couldn't have been asleep for more than an hour.

Then, he saw. An empty pile of blankets.

Arthur's heart caught in his throat, as he scrambled to his feet, panic filling his chest.

"Merlin?" he shouted, whirling around, and a breath of relief burst out of him, that was quickly stymied.

The boy was on his hands and knees, retching onto the cave floor, shoulders juddering. Outside, a blizzard whirled violently through the trees, wind howling with each new burst of needling snow.

"Merlin," Arthur rushed forward, falling to his knees by Merlin's side, "Merlin, what on earth are you doing?" But, he only received a weak shove in response, as Merlin tipped clumsily onto his feet,

"Leea me 'lone!" the boy rasped, his voice clipped with emotion. Arthur stood himself, and noticed that sweat covered Merlin's naked torso, and dripped from his hair.

He had one thin blanket clutched fearfully to his body, and Arthur knew that the freezing air couldn't be doing him any good.

He held out his palms in front of him, and approached Merlin, who was pressed up against the moist wall of the cave with a dull look of panic on his face.

"Merlin, it's alright. It's just me."

Merlin shook his head sternly, and tripped in his attempts to get farther away from Arthur,

"No no no…the…th-the parents…"

Arthur shook his head, bewildered,

"What?"

Merlin's face contorted in angry frustration,
"We can't do it right here, or they'll know, Arthur!" he practically screamed, as thought this was something Arthur should have known.

The prince shrugged helplessly, his heart in his throat. Merlin's eyes were delirious and roaming. Arthur could practically feel the heat coming off of him from seven feet away.

He had to figure out some way to calm him down.

"He has a new belt…" Merlin was muttering, groping at the stone with his free hand as if searching for some escape, "But, he kept the old one. For me…I know…I know it was for me," Merlin's voice was growing shrill and scared. Arthur swallowed, eyes darting to the pile of abandoned blankets on the floor.

Arthur's fur cloak was closer, though, and it looked like it had dried.

While Merlin was looking away, he stealthily bent down, and grasped it in his fist,

"Who, Merlin?" he asked gently of the feverish boy, who was struggling with shaking hands to hold the loose blanket around his waist, "No one's going to hurt you."

Even as Arthur said the words, Merlin began to shake harder, reaching up to clutch at his sodden hair, chest heaving for every breath.

Arthur frowned at the rattling sounds every time he inhaled,

"He'll know…" Merlin stammered, twisting and turning about as if he were blind, though his eyes danced toward the fire as if they had nowhere else to go, "He'll know…Gaius…Gaius said I was stupid, and he was right…he was right, Arthur!" he shouted in sudden anger, and the prince nodded in affirmative, humoring Merlin, hi hands tightening around the cloak.

He took a half-step closer.

"Yes, yes, Merlin. Haven't I always told you that? I think you're an idiot, if you recall."

Merlin flapped his lips aimlessly at the fire, as if it had just insulted him.

Then, without another sound, his eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed to the floor.

Arthur dove forward just in time to keep Merlin's skull from cracking open on the stone, but not quick enough to save his arm. There was an audible snap as it bent wrong with his fall, and Merlin let out a piercing scream of agony that sent a chill of horror up Arthur's spine.

Then, the boy went limp with unconsciousness, his cry dying out with a faint whimper.

Arthur swore worse than he ever had before in his life, and squirmed his way out from underneath Merlin's swooning back. He stared down in utter disbelief and frustration at his servant's pale and twisted arm.

Merlin's palm was facing down, but his thumb was in the wrong direction.

Arthur leaned over, and almost threw up the contents of his stomach right onto the dog, who narrowly avoided the bile with a startled yelp and a wriggling leap in the opposite direction.

…

It stormed all throughout the night, and Arthur didn't fall asleep again.

He watched Merlin, unknowing of what on earth he could do, and feel completely gaunt and wrung out because of it. Merlin's arm, at the elbow, had swollen up to the size of an apple and was a disgusting, mottled purple color. His skin was blistering with fever, and every time Arthur pressed a cold cloth to his head, he would moan and cry as if the slightest movement caused him unbearable pain.

Arthur had tried to roll Merlin back up into his blankets, but the moment his arm shifted an inch, the boy choked in agony, eyes flying open even though he remained unconscious, and Arthur danced away from him like a bed of hot coals at his feet.

So, Merlin lay with a stack of blankets draped on top of him, save for where his injured arm poked out. Arthur didn't dare make a splint, for fear of driving the bone through Merlin's skin and creating a wound more terrible than even Gaius could fix.

And judging by his inability to even dab Merlin's brow without creating some kind of distress in his manservant, and how each time it made Arthur curse and dig his hands into his eyes, acting as though it was the first time and making a grandiose deal out of it, he wasn't capable of performing any miracles at the moment.

Under a thick layer of deep, deep exhaustion and a call for action that was going unanswered, worry buzzed in Arthur's stomach like a waterlogged insect that refused to die, and he found himself sighing or occasionally punching the ground just to release some of the ever-building tension that came from trying to ignore his own unhelpful emotions.

The night wore on, seconds lagging by, and Arthur could feel the heavy pull of sleep on his eyes, but staved it off by slapping his own face, or running out and feeling the biting cold for just a moment.

Hours passed and Merlin didn't improve. His face scrunched in obvious pain, the break in his arm had swelled even larger, and when Arthur checked the cuts on his chest, they hadn't become pink or quieted down, but were still blazing red with infection. They were also weeping some kind of clear fluid that Arthur took to mean Merlin needed water.

But, when he tried to give it to him, the injured manservant thrashed away from it, as if the slightly warmed liquid were like ice against his skin, and jolted his arm. This caused him to scream and thrash even more, and Arthur in a fit of panicked fury, unable to pin him down, threw a fist into Merlin's face, and knocked the boy out cold.

He sat there for a moment, breathing hard with his teeth clenched, the cave now stunningly silent. Until, a trickle of blood began to run from Merlin's nose, and Arthur rushed to pinch it with his own shirt, guilt burning his insides.

He hardly noticed his own cold. His feet had long ago gone numb, but Arthur only realized when he accidentally caught sight of them, and noticed that his toes had turned a greyish color, and had the beginnings of white lines running through them.

He was reminded of the crumbling lake, gritted his teeth hard enough to chip them, then turned away from his own wounds, determined to ignore them as long as he could.

…

Dawn made its presence known by turning the black skies grey, and allowing the furious waves of snow to die down to a gentle fall.

Arthur, one thin blanket wrapped reluctantly around his shoulders from the moment he couldn't take the cold any longer during the night, stared with dismay at the two new feet of thick and tawdry white powder that blocked the entrance to their cave.

The whole forest seemed to have shortened a great deal, swallowed up by the freshly fallen snow, and Arthur could find no beauty in the glittering, blanketed landscape.

It took a moment, but Arthur snapped, and he heard it in his head.

Trudging out into the snow, not caring that it was up to his waist, that his pants were being soaked or that his toes were turning black inside his boots, he started shouting at the trees.

Shouting nonsense at the empty, uncaring forest, Arthur broke a branch off the nearest pine and started swinging it at anything he saw. His vision, blinded by red, was filling with angry, frustrated tears, and he didn't even notice.

His heart drummed inside his chest, and his teeth chattered from cold, but Arthur kept at it for another minute, unable to vent the swollen emotions in his chest.

Eventually, he fell to his knees exhausted, breathing harsh, his nose wet and dripping from the chill.

…

Arthur paced the cave in silent agitation, trying to think, the dog trotting and panting at his heels excitedly.

He knew that the moment he and Merlin didn't show up for the convoy of knights waiting in the forest halfway between the city gates and the cave at the right time, they would come looking. That would be at noon. It would take them at least five hours to get to the cave.

Arthur glanced at the sky, trying to catch a glimpse of the sun through the thick layer of pale, foggy clouds. He couldn't see it, but he knew that it couldn't be any later than eight o'clock.

Another nine hours until they would be found. Another twelve hours after that until they reached Camelot.

Arthur's gaze travelled down to the still bundle by their dying fire. They had run out of wood, but Arthur knew nothing in this snow-coated forest would light.

Soon, the last of their heat would be gone.

Merlin was still unconscious. His skin was frighteningly pale, and his fever hadn't broken. His skin was searing to the touch, and tendrils of black had crept up and down his injured arm until it resembled a knotty branch. The sight made Arthur sick. And dread for the fate that lay ahead of his manservant filled his gut with every waking hour. He hated it. He hated not knowing. He hated the fact that Merlin seemed in constant pain, yet no matter what he did, Arthur couldn't rouse him. He hated that Merlin hadn't spoken a word since his delirium.

Arthur hated that when he thought of that event in the night, watching Merlin so terrified and out of his mind, then hearing that fatal snap of his bone so unbearably loud over the howling wind, and Merlin's scream…it made his chest tight with worry in a way he couldn't explain.

They couldn't stay here. The realization hit Arthur hard, like a blow to the stomach, and he nearly lost his breath because of it.

But, he knew it was true. If they stayed here, there was no telling if Merlin would survive the night.

That thought did make Arthur lose his breath. And when he drew it back in, seconds later, it was shuddering and weak.

He took a moment, to store away any thoughts that had to do with all the bad things this could lead to, or how any of this could be his fault, or any such-same trains of thought that might debilitate Arthur from completing the impossible tasks ahead of him.

Then, he looked down, arms crossed, at the quietly whining dog at his feet. It looked up at him dolefully through a veil of knotted, ugly fur, tail wagging. Its ears perked up at his attention.

"Come on," he said, "We have work to do."

The pup didn't seem eager to help, though, as it lay quietly by Merlin's side while Arthur ran in and out of the cave, each time coming back with a long and semi-thick branch that put new strain on his shoulder, and reminded Arthur of the near-injury he'd gotten from carrying Merlin the day before.

Using one blanket, he cut it into long, thin strips with his hunting knife, and tossed them into a pile.

Laying the two large branches next to each other, Arthur, working as quickly but efficiently as possible, tucked the edges of the largest, sturdiest tarp they had in and underneath the branches to create a makeshift litter. He pierced holes through the fabric with his knife, and used a few of the strips he'd cut to lash the tarp to the branches.

He continued, tucking and tying until it was a strong, slightly slack pouch for Merlin to lay in. Rumpled fabric at the top and bottom of the stretcher would, hopefully, keep him from sliding out either side.

Arthur carved niches in the sides of the two branches, and wrapped a few of the strips (that he had tied all together to make one, long rope) around each branch, tied them off, and then added one more lashing around the middle of the loop to make a place where he could attach it to his belt.

Finally, the hard part. Throwing on his cloak, Arthur braced himself for the inner struggle ahead, and lifted the blankets off of Merlin as gently as he could. The boy, shaking visibly, though not violently, merely groaned in response to the movement, and Arthur felt a whole new flash of concern at the lack of response. Did this mean he was slipping farther away?

It added another inch to the growing pool of wearisome anxiety in Arthur's stomach, and he tried, like he did with the rest of it, to ignore the feeling.

Merlin did cry out, though, when Arthur had to scoot his arm close to his side, and began to sob dryly as Arthur started tucking the blankets around him one by one, as carefully as he could, trying not to disturb Merlin's injury. But, it didn't work. Arthur steeled himself against the pained, unconscious whimpers, and finally lifted Merlin into his arms.

He laid him down on the stretcher with all the confidence of a man who didn't believe his plan was going to succeed in the slightest, but knew he had no other choice.

After lashing Merlin in as tightly and firmly as he could, so that the boy would remain as still as possible for their journey, he snaked the tie he'd made at the front of the contraption through the loops of his trousers.

"On our way," he announced to no one in particular, hefting the bag of supplies he'd retrieved over his right shoulder, and trudged toward the exit of their cave.

Merlin gasped with pain the first inch they traversed forward, and Arthur knew this was going to be a long trip.

…

"I…" Arthur said, sliding backward down a tiny slope with his hands braced against Merlin's litter to keep it from escaping, "…am beginning to think you don't want us to get home, Merlin." He spoke into the boy's ear, which was radiating fever, and had turned pink from the cold.

The dog lay on Merlin's chest, its chin on its paws, watching Arthur with mild interest.

Around them, the world lay in frozen stillness. Packed and pristine snow covered every inch of green, making it incredibly difficult for Arthur to know where he was going.

"Of course, you're always there to make things difficult. Just a pain in my ass, truly," he panted, boots submerging neatly into the dense drift of snow at the bottom of the slope. He stood, "Probably were for your mother, too."

He wrestled Merlin's litter on top of the drift, and began trudging through it, covered up to his knees in thick, clumping powder,

"Who is your mother, Merlin?" he asked, his small mutterings sounding unnaturally loud in the eerie silence of the forest, "You've never talked about her…" he paused, caught his breath, and fought his way a few more steps forward, "You don't talk about yourself much at all, do you?"

Merlin remained unresponsive, and Arthur was forced to remember why he had begun rambling in the first place. His manservant's stillness, his silence, was just so incredibly wrong when the air between them should be filled with conversation and banter.

He'd always wished for Merlin to shut his mouth. Now, Arthur would kill for just one word.

"But, you did have a mother. I know that much…" Arthur bent double, wheezing for air, knees shaking from fatigue, "Lucky bastard."

His mind went unbidden to Merlin's fevered words the night before.

"He has a new belt…but, he kept the old one. For me…I know…I know it was for me."

Arthur rubbed a hand down his face, fighting a rise of guilt.

Apparently, he'd had a father, too.

…

The sky had turned to deep grey, and Arthur stared up at it in apprehension.

A steady mist of light rain had replaced the falling snow, and he could only pray that it wouldn't get any worse.

Hours must have passed, and nothing was getting warmer. Nothing was getting better. Arthur had lost track of time in the pounding of his heart and the burning of his tired limbs. The wind whistled around him, billowing in his shirt, and doing something to him that caused his toes to ache with pain, and twice he had to stop to breathe through the agony.

It took him a few moments to realize he was there the first time he woke up in the snow.

No more than five minutes could have passed, but Arthur cursed himself anyway, and put on a new burst of speed with new urgency.

He slapped himself awake, knowing he couldn't let it happen again.

But, it did.

Arthur quite literally fell asleep on his feet. The world teetered, tipped, and grew dark. Arthur could feel himself falling, but could do nothing to stop it.

For a moment, his world was nothing but darkness and cold, and bites of pain running sluggishly through the back of his mind.

There was a crack somewhere, and a rush of vertigo, then silence.

He woke up at the bottom of a snowy hill, spitting needles and slush from his mouth, the world spinning around him. His head was ringing, and his arms buzzed angrily, refusing to move for a few terrifying seconds of Arthur staring at them in panic.

Then, the realization set in. He looked to his left, and felt his heart drop like a stone in his chest.

The litter was next to him, smashed nearly in half, with Merlin still attached. He hung from the twisted stretcher, which was leaned in chaotic brokenness up against the trunk of a tree, suspended by the ties around his body.

The blankets were rumpled and untucked around him. Arthur's eyes widened in horror at the line of red trickling down from Merlin's wet hairline.

An overwhelming sense of hopelessness crashed over Arthur, and he buried his face in his hands, and wept hot tears.

He was just so tired. And he was more frustrated than he could remember ever being before. It burned inside of him like a hot vice around his lungs, until all he wanted to do was scream at the heavens until these past few days were reversed and began again so he could give Merlin a better cloak in the morning. So, he could excuse him from the trip, and bring the knights instead.

Merlin was going to die. Arthur was either going to die as well, or go home without him and have to live with the memory of his failure.

Which, was worse, he realized with some disbelief.

Which was worse.

Arthur came to a conclusion, and his muted sobs died down.

He breathed in.

He breathed out.

Standing, he maneuvered Merlin away from the tree, and laid him gently in the snow.

Still unconscious. Still shivering. Nothing had changed, and it gave Arthur relief, where it should have gave him concern. Because, at least he was in limbo. At least, Arthur knew where he was.

He had one more chance. He had to take it.

Turning on his heel, Arthur ran, leaving Merlin in the icy drift behind him.

He heard the mourning howl of the dog as it came running down the hill, but he didn't look back.

He ran.

And he ran.

…

When Arthur found them, it took him a moment or two to even realize he was there.

By that time, the knights had crowded around him, asking questions and shaking him, seeing if he was alright. Their fire lay abandoned, smoke curling upward white and thick in the snow-cleared glade.

Leon stood at the front and foremost of the group, and he clasped Arthur's shoulder, looking him in the eye.

He didn't realize that the prince had lost track of himself in the exhaustion and pain and work and fear. Arthur could hardly feel his own body, or hear his own thoughts.

But, he could sense his own lips.

He was stunned that he sounded so calm,

"Merlin's injured. I couldn't carry him. Leon, you have to go back, he's off-trail on your route."

"Yes, sire, of course, of course. We'll go now, but please, sit down before you fall."

Oh. Maybe, Arthur didn't sound as calm as he thought.

He didn't take Leon's advice. And he did end up falling.

The last things he was aware of were shouting voices, and hands grasping at him as he fell into oblivion.