Merlin has spent another day staring at George as though he's grown an extra head. The man really does make jokes about brass, something that he wasn't sure was possible until now. It doesn't help that his eyes, burning with tiredness, keep drooping shut until he remembers he isn't in bed and it isn't a good idea for him to fall asleep. He thought Arthur might be joking, when he'd said a whole week, but apparently these are his duties.

It keeps him busy, distracted from a weight that's still heavy in his stomach. He tries to make sure he's never alone for more than ten minutes at a time, and though George is dull and possesses the kind of humour that makes the warlock want to dash his brains out against the cool stone of the castle walls, he's thankful, sometimes.

The problem is that he tried to kill Arthur, his best friend. It hadn't been him, as such, but more Morgana using him as a weapon against the king but the more he realises how close he'd been to ending the life of the man he's sworn himself to, the more he retreats. The guilt burns hot and white in his chest, never doused for long enough to let him get more than an hour's sleep at a time, and even then his dreams are plagued with the belief that he'd succeeded where he'd actually failed. More than once he wakes up screaming, tears streaming down his face and his breath so short and lacking that he's close to fainting.

Today he's been given a break from George to set up Arthur's lunch and, with defiance burning bright in his otherwise tired eyes, he doesn't do it the way he's been told to. Instead, he does it how he always has. He makes the mistake of sitting down on one of the window sills soon after as he waits for Arthur to return, eyes drooping shut barely seconds later and, completely unintentionally, he falls asleep.

I can't not grant his wish.

Rather be dead than without him.