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The thing Arthur remembered most clearly was the rancid breath of the beast as its slavering jaws opened against his throat. At least if it focused on killing him then there would be a chance for Merlin, his father and the other knights to get away. All of them were worth dying for.
“Sorcerer!” he heard his father cry. And then nothing.
---
“You were lucky,” Gaius told him. “The creature’s body hit you as it died. The force of the blow knocked you out.”
Arthur looked around hazily. That annoying servant, the one with the thing for brass, was fussing around with a bowl of water. There was no sign of Merlin.
“Where’s Merlin?” Arthur asked.
Gaius seemed so much older than Arthur remembered. He looked so tired.
---
Sorcerers escaped far too often.
Uther had found a way to ensure they stayed marked for life as soon as they were sentenced. It didn’t take as long as building a pyre and if they got away the incriminating mark remained. It was quick. It was brutal.
And it was Merlin of all people who was tied in the courtyard, stripped to the waist and bound over a block, shivering in the cold. Merlin, Arthur’s beloved servant, Arthur’s friend. And maybe something more but there would be no time to explore that if Merlin died on the pyre in a few days’ time.
Arthur staggered out into the courtyard, still feeling sick and dizzy from his head wound. Too late to stop the first part of the sentence being carried out.
It was the smell more than anything that had done it. The smell, and the scream of pain from Merlin as the brand scorched his skin. The look of triumph on the king’s face. The realisation that he cared more for Merlin than he did his father.
Everything was a bit of a blur after that. But again Arthur could remember the smell. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to forget the smell.
He raised his sword, his own injuries forgotten.
---
They crossed the border at nightfall, and then Arthur finally risked stopping. Merlin almost fell from his horse, hissing with pain when Arthur caught him and helped him to the ground.
“I’m sorry!” Merlin gasped. He’d been saying that over and over. But Arthur had made his choice.
“Shhh…”
“But you shouldn’t have done it. Now you’ll never be king,” Merlin breathed. “And you would have been the greatest king of all. I’ve ruined everything.” He gasped as Arthur gently peeled his shirt away from the wound.
Arthur stared at the horrible burn on Merlin’s shoulder that was always going to mark him as a sorcerer. He was going to have to try to clean it. There was nobody else, at least until they reached Ealdor and the comforting presence of Merlin’s mother.
“My father ruined it. Not you. You saved me and this is how he rewards you?”
Merlin said nothing, just hung his head.
“I’m still the rightful heir,” Arthur reminded him. “Banished or not. A cruel king can’t reign forever, and won’t retain the support of his people. I’ll be the sort of king people can follow, or I’ll be no king at all. We’ll find a way, you and I. But we’re not going to worry about it tonight. Right now I need to find cold water and wash that wound. And it’s going to hurt.”
Merlin stared at him mournfully. “I’m sorry I let him see my magic,” he offered. “But I couldn’t let you die, and there was no other way.”
“I know.”
It was a sentiment Arthur completely understood.
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