Groaning as the light of the infant sun tore him from the veil of dreams, a pale figure lifted himself off of the sagging mattress on which he had slept. Moth-eaten fabric fell to the ground in a jumbled heap, the gnarled flooring visible under the threadbare cloth. Stumbling haphazardly, the boy quickly clothed himself and, miraculously, made it out of his chamber door and down the flight of steps, resting just outside, without injury.

A man, many years the boy's elder, watched the decent with mild amusement. A silver eyebrow, cocked in an ever judging position, raised in silent inquiry as he gestured to a bowl of porridge set upon a table on the verge of collapse. A grunt of greeting was the only thanks he was given for his effort.

The meal, if it could even be thought of as such, was gone in an instant. The bitter taste refused to be washed away by the watered-down mead used to quench the thirst inflicted by sleep. The young man knew quite well that it would not disappear until well after the blue sky turned black.

With a mumbled farewell, the pale form slipped through the front door, wincing as its protests shattered the morning silence. A white mist poured forth from his mouth and nose with each breath. Ice cracked underfoot as he made his way swiftly down the stone-paved streets.

Entering the castle, he was rewarded with a continuous blast of warm air. With awkward movements, he made his way down the lavishly decorated corridors and, after a few wrong turns, into the room of his master.

Catching the edge of the table that lie to the left of the door, he was barely able to keep himself from falling on his face. Managing to seize the heavy curtains in his shaking hands, after several failed attempts, he pulled them aside with a heavily slurred, "Good morning, Sire."

A guttural growl sounded from the bed to his right. The tanned, heavily muscled body buried beneath quilt after quilt of thick, luxurious material stirred, pressing his feather-stuffed pillows closer to his ears to block out the sound of his annoying manservant. Fully expecting an onslaught of phrases like "Get up!" or "What would your subject's think if they could see you now?" or "Arthur, you Clotpole! There's mud all over the floor! And your armor! I just cleaned this yesterday, you Prat!" yet not receiving them, he turned a squinted sapphire eye upon his unusually silent companion.

Black, wavy hair stuck out at odd angles upon his head and across his face, which was contorted in confusion. His gangly form, typically held in a confident manner, was rocking to and fro. His eyes, always dancing with mischief and a teasing glint, were unfocused. His complexion, pale in general, seemed to be a shade lighter than normal.

Concern cleared Arthur's mind in an instant.

"Merlin," he called out, voice rough with disuse yet gentle all the same. "Merlin, are you alright?"

Said boy blinked slowly, staring at him as if he'd spoken with an accent that was difficult for him to decipher. Alarmed, Arthur slid out of bed, a blanket held loosely around his hips. He shivered as the freezing air and floor met his flesh and distantly wondered just how much worse it was outside the castle walls. Gripping his manservant's wrist, he inhaled sharply. 'No one should ever be this cold.'

However, it was when he noticed just how shallow Merlin's breathing was, as shown by the vapor slowly twisting out of his slightly parted, dark blue lips that the severity of the situation truly hit him.

"GET ME GAIUS, NOW!"