Oooft! Overuse of magic powers/magical exhaustion is always a *great* whump trope, and one we didn't really get much of in Merlin. We got lots of self-sacrifice/putting himself in harm's way to protect Arthur so maybe something along those lines but with magical exhaustion/having to use his powers so much/for so long he suffers backlash? :D
yesss this is such a good trope!! i hope you like this! :)
Merlin dragges himself sluggishly across the forest floor, the autumn leaves crunching with every barely-taken step.
"Men, I suppose none of you are hungry?" Arthur announces, so suddenly that Merlin stumbles, realizing he was more in his head than he usually allowed. As much as he could be scattered, usually it was because he was thinking about too many things at the same time, not the opposite. Now, though, his brain feels as though it's barely keeping up with the command to put one foot in front of the other.
The group confusedly glances around, hoping someone else will understand the joke. "Of course we're hungry," Gwaine says. "Didn't you see the battle we just won? Took hours. I'm famished."
"Well, Merlin clearly disagrees, seeing as he's dragging his feet fit to frighten off the whole forest."
Merlin flushes in embarrassment, his cheeks and the tips of his ears heating up slightly. It stands in stark contrast to the overall pallor of his face, which is a lighter shade than even usual, and in the sun, he's practically translucent.
"We've surely got enough dried meat for a night, don't we?"
Arthur frowns indignantly. "Are you suggesting we dwindle our rations so you don't have to pick up your feet when you walk?"
"I'm suggesting we use or rations so we don't have to hunt after the battle."
"You realize the whole point of this trip is to hunt, right? I'm not going back empty-handed."
Arthur has been in a particularly surly mood lately, specifically about hunting. Not only has he been taking it more seriously than anyone outght to, he's been enofrcing trips once every weekend rather than once or twice a month. Honestly, Merlin is pretty sure he's just growing tired of having to tell the kindgom he's got nothing to give people when they come to his door begging for more rations for their villages. He's starting to take it very personally.
"You're not even the one who has to hunt. You're just checking the traps."
"And cooking."
"That's just poking things on a fire."
"And checking the traps is more difficult than all that. I've got to carry it all back, and it's heavy."
Arthur looks so grave that it puts an end to the conversation immediatey when he looks off wistfully and says, "we'd better hope so."
Merlin's vision doubles again as he stands from resetting yet another empty trap in front of him. So far, of the six he's checked, four have been empty, one was a diseased squirrel that's far from edible, and the last is a fox--heavy enough to be hard to carry, but not nearly enough to feed a village of hungry people.
This would be only enough to feed the knights for the evening.
Gods, he's tired. The battle earlier had taken everything out of him. There had been so manny bandits charging them from so many different angles, he'd practically had to shield the entire Round Table to keep everyone surveiled and safe. At one point he'd been knocking down a tree branch, toppling a hill of rocks, and irking a horse into bucking all at the same time. By the timeArthur had announced their victory at the bandits' retreat, Merlin had been seeing double. Now, he feels chilled and flushed in equal measure, shivering while sweat pours into his eyes. Every trap he has to reset pushes him a little closer to unconsciousness, and what he sees on the horizon next makes him almost want to give up, go back to camp, and suffer Arthur's wrath, later.
The trap has caught an entire deer.
On a normal day, it would be greatly difficult, but she's a female, and pretty small. Merlin would guess she's barely full grown, if she's not still a teenager. He'd be more than capable of dragging her the last short distance back to camp, but he's certain that he's too weak to do so, now.
"I need a hand!" he shouts, waits for an answer, hears nothing. "Hey! Guys, I could use some help!"
Again, no reply. With a sigh that almost turns into an exhausted sob, choked off at the end, Merlin presses his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose in frustration. He allows himself this self-pitying moment, crouched in he dirt looking fraught, before hauling himself and the fox to his feet.
He bends for the deer and it's heavier than he expects. She's larger up close than he'd estimated. When he takes her by the back legs, he decides to place a light enchantment on her to make her body a float gently above the ground to help make the journey easier. Otherwise, he's going to have to drag her the whole distance. He thinks the spell and waits for the glowing feeling of magic t pulse through him, but it doesn't come. Instead, his balance sways, his vision blurs, and the last thing he's aware of is the fact that the ground looks remarkably soft before he goes crashing into it.
When he comes to on his back, it's much later than when he'd swooned. He recognizes the feeling: an itchiness behind his eyes, nausea deep within every joint of his body, a feeling in his stomach as if he might start vomiting up cotton. He's expended the last of his maigc. Slowly, painfully, he drags himself back to the camp, fox forgotten.
"Merlin," Arthur sneers mockingly, in that way that's barely even half serious and mostly for show in front of his friends. "You sure were gone a long time." His face falls. "There was really no game to bring back?"
Merlin shakes his head. "A deer," he manages, his tongue feeling like a wet sponge in his numb mouth. "Couldn't carry it. And a fox."
"You couldn't carry a fox?"
"Mate, you look wrecked," Gwaine points out. "Come, sit. Percy's gotten started on dinner."
"We couldn't wait any longer for you to come back, though we might have waited if I'd known you were going to abandon the game and come back empty handed."
Merlin doesn't take the bait, doesn't even make his way all the way across the camp to sit by Gwaine. Instead, he crosses his legs where he is and sits, leaning forward dangerously toward the fire for warmth.
"Woah!" Percival exclaims, pulling him back from the flames. "Merlin? You alright?"
Merlin nods, but his blinks are getting longer and longer and it's becoming harder to discern what people are saying despite knowing they're talking to him.
"He's not responding?"
A cool hand makes its way to his forehead in a gesture so uncertain, so wildly out of practice with any modicum of human caring that he knows it's Arthur's. "I can't tell if he's feverish."
Another hand, and this time, Percival confirms it. "I'm sure he's exhausted from the battle, probably caught a chill, too. He's been quiet since the fight."
"Merlin?" Gwaine catches his attention. "We're going to put you to bed, but can I get you to eat something first? It's just a bit of herb broth and mushrooms. We didn't find much else.
Merlin shrugs, which he apparently takes as an affirmative answer, because the next thing he knows, he's being assalted with criminally underseasoned, blisteringly hot broth that someone is blowing on loudly and unpleasantly.
"Not hungry," he deicides, surprised with how well he's able to communicate the words then realizing that apparently it's not as well as he thought, becuase they're leaning in like he's mubled it. "Not hungry."
"Okay. We'll try again later. Let's just get some sleep, yeah?" Arthur helps him to his feet and ends up taking most of his weight without complaint or even so much as a grunt.
"You really are warm," he mutters as he guides Merlin to the bedroll he's pulled up beside his own. "You'll sleep next to the fire tonight, try to keep that fever stable." He situates him into the bedroll. "Alright?"
Merlin nods to get the conversation over with, but it doesn't appease Arthur, at least, not right away. "You're sure? You're shivering."
"Just a chill," he replies in a thin voice. "Jus' need sleep."
Arthur takes off his cloak and lays it over top of Merlin, then the rest of the knights do the same. Soon, he's burried deep and finally warm.
"You'll be making breakfast first thing tomorrow morning, Merlin." He's not sure if that's to sooth Merlin or himself, or if it's not meant to do either and it's really just a command, but when Merlin nods, he seems to relax a little bit. "Get some rest. I'll be here if you need anything."
