Merlin Headcanons

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Merlin did Arthur's laundry. He washed his floor. He brought him food.

That was in his job description.

He mucked out his stables. He went on hunts. He ducked goblets.

That was . . . not in his job description, but not terribly unreasonable.

He wrote speeches. He gave valuable advice. He fought in battles. He encouraged him. He helped him pursue Guinevere.

Definitely not in his job description, but Merlin, if asked, would probably say it was his role as a friend.

He tasted Arthur's food for poison. He fought assassins. He followed spies. He formed alliances and created loyalties to the king.

That was above and beyond the call of any duty he might reasonably have. Especially since he kept his activities in those areas secret.

And, apparently, he used magic to ward the city. He saved Arthur's life on a regular basis. He fought his kin, magically speaking, in order to protect a Pendragon.

Merlin claimed that was in his job description, as per destiny's orders. Had Merlin been well, Arthur would have thrown something at him. As it was . . .

As it was, the thought made him feel sick. Thinking of Merlin's condition at all made his stomach twist and his eyes burn, though he'd already wept himself dry in private.

No man is worth your tears.

And if the man wasn't dead? If, instead, he'd been humiliated and tortured and mocked for his loyalty and still refused to raise a hand against his tormentor? If, even after that, without one word of apology, he'd agreed to fight in Camelot's defense?

It wasn't your fault.

That was what they'd all told him. It wasn't his fault Agravaine had betrayed him. It wasn't his fault that Morgana had enchanted him. What had happened to Merlin had not been his fault.

Merlin hadn't known that. For weeks, only those involved in the conspiracy had. Agravaine, following his lady's orders. Morgana, once so compassionate, laughing cruelly in his mind as his imprisoned consciousness had struggled against her intrusion. As he'd begged her to stop this. Not to make him - not to force him to -

He hadn't known that Merlin was a sorcerer - warlock, he corrected himself. He had been angry. Had he been in control of himself, he would have demanded explanations. The circumstances hadn't been favorable - Merlin had been meeting with someone who'd called him "my lord" and talked about a plan - but, at most, he would have hit the man in a fit of rage and then exiled him. More likely, Merlin would have explained, he would have remained angry for a while, and then he would have grudgingly given in and gotten over it.

Morgana . . . hadn't wanted that. She hadn't wanted Emrys dead, was apparently forbidden to kill him by the fates themselves, and so had wanted him broken as the next best thing.

Pain from her would have hurt him, obviously. That was what pain meant.

But that wasn't what she wanted. She wanted him broken.

So she had used Arthur, an unwitting, silently screaming puppet, and Merlin hadn't known.

Merlin hadn't known he'd been enchanted. Merlin had thought the man he was loyal to had been in full control of himself. The most powerful warlock in the world had thought -

Arthur punched the wall outside of Gaius's chambers. Hard. His knuckles bled.

That was the only injury on him.