Chapter Text
[redacted, song recommendation for story] Enjoy!
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Merlin had never bled to death, but he imagined this was what it felt like. Every spell he cast was another cut on his skin, fine and papery but weeping precious blood all the same. It was a metaphor (for now) as Merlin had only a few visible injuries even at this last stage of battle, but that didn’t make it any less true. Merlin was bleeding out, hemorrhaging his magic at soldiers and sorcerers alike, at trees and loose rocks, at swords and horses when he had nothing else to reach for. Each spell spent his energy, used his magic, took the lifeblood from his veins, and he would soon have little to spare.
There were downsides to hiding in Camelot, even being the most powerful sorcerer who ever lived. Merlin did not often get to practice freely. He did not often get to spread his wings and feel the full breadth of his magic. He did not know what he was truly capable of. Often, he imagined his powers were limitless, but this battle with Dyfed had gone on for hours. They had sorcerers on their side and it was harder to trip them up when he had to be quick and powerful, secretive and yet still take them out in a single blow. Merlin’s heart thumped heavily.
Merlin’s magic left him little skill with a sword in compensation. Rather than risk his attention being split in hand-to-hand combat, Merlin chose to run constantly, darting from Arthur’s side to Gaius in the medical tent to the red-clad knights and back again. The running took a physical toll that even the expenditure of his magic did not quite reach, but the quickly-approaching bottom of his magical well was more worrying. Would Merlin have enough magic to outlast the tide of battle, to turn it in Camelot’s favor, or would he be pulled under, drowned, and dashed against the rocks?
Merlin’s vision blurred with exhaustion. He mumbled a spell that super-heated a sword before it fell on Percival’s back. The soldier’s scream was his last and Merlin turned his face away at the wet crunch. He breathed hard, gasping into jittery lungs and choking on his racing heart. He swallowed the taste of copper and coughed on rock dust. Something rounded—an arm, a leg, a helmet, a log, he did not look to be certain—rolled out from under his foot and Merlin went stumbling on the uneven terrain. He became a target.
A soldier swung at him with a whistling mace.
Percival skewered them from behind.
The soldier landed at Merlin’s feet with a thump, almost taking his legs out from underneath him. Merlin tripped and managed to find his feet, pushing sweat-dampened hair out of his eyes. A cut on his hand stung.
Percival flashed a relieved smile.
“Where’s Arthur?” Merlin shouted over the din. He looked down at his stinging palm and discovered a fine cut stretching the length of his hand. It wept blood slowly, half-scabbed over.
Gwaine indicated with a spread arm. His face was sweat- and grime-streaked, but he grinned. “Our fearless leader is at the front line.”
Merlin ran again, dodging and weaving, flinging spells when he had to, saving his strength when he could, until he could see Arthur. Bedecked in his red raiment, his sword catching the fading sunlight, Arthur was a sight that was worth writing songs about. Merlin watched for a moment from the small hill he had climbed in an attempt to stay out of the fray, trying to catch his breath while he was mostly-hidden in a copse of young birch trees. Arthur cut down soldier after soldier, commanding the area surrounding him with skill borne of years of practice. Merlin was able to whisper a few spells from that distance, felling spears and arrows before they could reach Arthur.
Dyfed’s army was losing ground, even with their sorcerers and soldiers. Maybe tomorrow, someone would look a little closer at why Camelot’s army was able to defeat Dyfed when they were bolstered by magic, but that day was not today. The last soldier fell on Arthur’s blade and he stood a moment, breathing hard, secure in Merlin’s sights.
In the distance, finally, Merlin heard Dyfed’s commander give the horn for retreat.
Merlin let his burning eyes slip closed, breathing out a sigh of relief. It was over, it was finally over. Weak-kneed, he sagged against the white birch and tried to find the willpower to walk to Arthur’s side. The downhill distance, while not vast, seemed too much for Merlin’s exhausted body. Even so, he tremulously pulled himself together and took that first halting step towards Arthur. Thankfully, the ground was dry and hard-packed. Slippery mud would have been Merlin’s death.
Seeing movement from the corner of his eye, Arthur turned with his sword at the ready, but he recognized Merlin immediately even through his visor. “I thought I heard your knees knocking together, Merlin,” Arthur called cheerfully. He sheathed his sword, removed his sweaty helmet, and started walking to meet Merlin as he slid down the small hill. “How are the others?”
“Last I saw, Gwaine and Percival were holding the line,” Merlin told him. “Gaius is tending the wounded. I’ve been running supplies.”
Arthur clapped Merlin at the shoulder and squeezed a little too hard so that his gauntlet cut through Merlin’s jacket. It was the closest he would come to outright saying that he was grateful for Merlin’s presence, his survival, his support—even though a bumbling and unarmed (as far as everyone knew) servant had no place on the battlefield.
Merlin often hid behind that preconceived pretense of cowardice and a more accurate fabrication of assisting the medics. Meanwhile, he supported Camelot with his magic. In a way, he was putting even more than his life on the line with each and every fight. Sure, Merlin could just as easily die to a rogue arrow or sword blow, but if anyone on his own side noticed the flash of gold in his eyes, he would be killed by the very people he had sworn to protect. Arthur himself would cut Merlin down. So, even in life-threatening combat, Merlin protected his friends and he protected himself and he protected his secret.
“Good,” Arthur said with potent relief. “That’s good.”
Merlin nodded, a smile hanging at the edge of his mouth. The sudden movement and the magic-deficit made his head swim. He squeezed his dry eyes shut, trying to steady himself internally.
Under Arthur’s hand, Merlin tilted unsteadily and he tightened his grip in response. “Whoa, whoa,” Arthur counseled. “Take it easy. Are you alright?” Before Merlin could answer, he patted at Merlin in search of an injury.
Merlin hissed when Arthur’s hand none-to-gently found a blow along his ribs.
“Sorry,” Arthur muttered but did not stop his pawing. He felt out Merlin’s chest and back where blood wouldn’t easily have shown through his rust-colored jacket and red tunic. He discovered a few other places where Merlin tried to squirm from his touch, but nothing that made Merlin cry out in pain nor anything sticky with blood. That didn’t necessarily mean he was unharmed though. “Let’s get you back to Gaius,” Arthur continued. “He can take a look at you.”
“I’m fine,” Merlin protested though he didn’t wrest free of Arthur’s supportive grip. “Just a little banged up and tired from chasing after you.”
“Well, you can rest easy once we get back to Camelot, Merlin,” Arthur said teasingly, “after you’ve fetched my dinner and drawn me a hot bath.”
Merlin didn’t laugh at the poor joke. His blue eyes narrowed.
Arthur spun Merlin around and gave his shoulder a little push. When Merlin didn’t stumble, Arthur let out a breath of relief and walked beside his friend across the strewn battlefield. Their progress was slow, made halting by Merlin stopping every few feet to check for survivors. In silence, Arthur did the same. The casualties mostly belonged to Dyfed, but Camelot red was strewn throughout the ruin. They would need to collect their dead and Arthur would like to prepare at least a mass pyre for Dyfed’s fallen. No one deserved to have their corpses picked by crows, even enemies.
From the corner of his eye, Merlin saw a glint. It was like sunlight on water, like a match struck at twilight, like the flick of a hawk’s talons—there and gone in a flash.
Too late, Merlin saw the arrow coming for Arthur’s unprotected face.
Too late, Arthur spotted the archer.
With an outstretched hand, the arrow turned to dust and Merlin’s eyes flared with gold. In almost the same breath, a second arrow was loosed and Merlin sent it spinning back from whence it came. It stuck hard in the archer’s chest in the soft meat above his breastplate, sinking deep. Blood sprayed as the archer slumped out of his hiding place, dead.
Acid scalded up Merlin’s throat and his vision blackened at the edges. His knees buckled and it was only sheer desperation that kept Merlin on his feet.
“Arthur,” he choked out, sucked in a shuddering breath, tried again. “Are you—?”
All the blood drained from Arthur’s face, leaving him pale and sweat-soaked at the temples. His mouth hung open and his eyes popped wide. His hand was wrapped around the pommel of his sword, either in response to the archer or Merlin himself.
A moment too late, Merlin realized he was reaching traitorous hands for the prince and dropped them. “Arthur,” he managed.
“You,” Arthur gasped, “you have magic.”
Too drained to fight his emotions on top of his faltering body, tears welled in Merlin’s eyes. “I was born with it,” he croaked. “I use it for you, Arthur, to protect you.”
“You—you lied to me!”
Merlin flinched as though each word struck a blow. He felt Arthur’s disappointment, Arthur’s horror, Arthur’s hate, clawing up inside of his chest like a rabid beast. “I’m sorry,” he began, but what else could he say?
“You lied to me!” Arthur shouted.
His voice boomed over the battlefield and a flock of crows suddenly took flight from the trees where Merlin had watched Arthur fight only minutes ago. Merlin tracked their movement, unable to help himself, and wished abruptly that he could fly away too. He didn’t want to do this, not now, not here. He was so tired that he could barely think, let alone defend himself. He had no magic left. The well inside him was dry and hollow, a puff of dust where his heart should have been.
“I’m—”
Arthur grabbed Merlin at the shoulders and jerked him closer by his jacket. His gauntlets pinched Merlin’s skin underneath. “You lied to me!”
“—sorry,” Merlin whispered. Through his wet eyes and blurred vision, he could only make out the twisted half-moon of Arthur’s pale face. Merlin’s ears rang, buzzed, filled with cotton and stone. He could see the shape of Arthur’s yelling mouth, snarled with rage, shouting and screaming something that fell on Merlin like a physical blow yet came without sound. “I’m so sorry.”
Arthur suddenly shoved him away.
Merlin’s ankle caught something—a body, a weapon, or rubble—and twisted underneath him when he fell. It snapped, but the spark of pain was little more than a single ember against Arthur’s raging wildfire. Merlin watched Arthur’s blurry form pace back and forth, three or four steps one way followed by a quick turn, repeat. Arthur tore at his hair, he jabbed his finger at Merlin, he shouted with a black mouth.
Merlin’s heart pounded, thumping so hard against his ribs that he thought it might break free. He tried to focus, to listen, to understand what Arthur was feeling. His tired eyes were filmed, his mouth stuffed with cotton, his ears underwater. Blind with exhaustion and almost deaf, Merlin could only stare as Arthur drew his sword and shouted something. The ring of the blade emerging from the sheath cut through Merlin’s fog.
Light played down the length of the blade, illuminating the smears and smudges of blood from battle.
Abruptly, Merlin realized he was going to die.
Destiny was a funny thing. Merlin had often thought that he would do anything for Arthur, even die. Truly, he had been willing to drink poison more than once, to use his body as a shield, to stand against unfathomable odds and beasts with nothing but his secret, to support Arthur from the shadows until the day unfathomable light might shine on a united Albion. He thought he was okay with dying for Arthur, but as that sword moved in his field of view, Merlin realized that was not the case.
He did not want to die—not for this, not for who he was, not at Arthur’s hand.
He did not want to die—not without seeing his mother again, not without seeing Gaius and Gwen one more time.
He did not want to die.
He did not want to die!
Before the blade could fall, Merlin grasped helplessly for his magic, but there was none left. His reserves were empty and he was defenseless. Instead, he rolled desperately to the side to avoid the slash of the sword. Facedown in the dirt, Merlin scrambled to his feet and tried to run. His injured ankle gave out, wrenching hideously underneath him on the uneven rocks. He fell hard and a cry of pain ripped from his mouth.
That cry freed something in his chest. Words poured from him, blood-spattered and aching, rent from his lips without his permission. They felt like they were flowing from miles away, muffled beneath a fog of despair and exhaustion.
“Please, no,” Merlin begged. He couldn’t stand when he tried. His ankle burned like a torch set against his bones, a hot poker in his marrow, like the pyre licking from his feet up to his heart. Instead, he dragged his lower body across the ground, scrabbling with his bare hands, crawling on hands and knees. “Please, Arthur, I didn’t do it to hurt you. I couldn’t tell you—I’m scared. Please, don’t! I never meant, oh goddess, I never meant to—”
Something sharp lashed Merlin’s injured palm, bit at his belly and knees, as he crawled from Arthur. He kept trying to get his feet underneath him, to stand, to run, but Merlin was just so tired. His body was at its limit, his magic was a void, his head throbbed with pain, his throat constricted around every breath. He was aware that he was begging, crying, pleading. He might have screamed if he only had the strength.
“Please, Arthur, don’t,” Merlin sobbed. He grabbed a root and dragged himself forward. A discarded weapon cut into his knee and sent a flare of pain down into his ankle when he tried to put weight on it, pressing with his toes for purchase. “Please, I would never hurt you. Never! I just—I couldn’t tell. How could I? I’m this. I never meant to, Arthur, please. Please, don’t!”
Hands closed on Merlin’s jacket and jerked hard, halting his retreat and rolling him over in one motion.
The sky spun dizzily overhead—clouds and birds and colors approaching twilight. The sun would set in a few hours. Merlin supposed it would be beautiful and he wouldn’t see it. Suddenly, all he wanted was to see the sun sink down behind the White Mountains, behind the forest surrounding Ealdor, behind the spires of Camelot Castle. He wanted to see it from Arthur’s window, from the small low view in Gaius’s chambers, from the battlements and ramparts. Just one more sunset before he died. He had never really just sat and watched a sunset before. He always thought he would have had time.
All at once, Merlin landed flat on his back. The breath was knocked out of his lungs, momentarily cutting off his pleading. He wheezed.
Arthur’s face swam into view, blue eyes in a fog of golden hair.
Merlin would not be able to escape Arthur. He realized that now. There was no hope of survival, but perhaps—just maybe—there was hope for mercy.
“Kill me here,” Merlin begged, his arms spread wide and helpless against Arthur. In this position, he was aware of the crack in his ribcage where an unlucky blow had landed. Pain bubbled hotly there, lava seeping between the bones. “Please. Kill me here. Make it quick, please, Arthur, please. If we were ever friends, oh goddess, please, just kill me here and now. Run me through. Make it quick. Arthur, please!”
Arthur said something, but the words were swallowed up by the ocean roaring in Merlin’s chest and ears. Waves crashed, spilling saltwater from his eyes and down his throat. He choked, gagged, heaved for breath, drowned right there on dry land. Arthur gripped his shirt and seemed to shake him, though for what purpose Merlin did not understand. Merlin’s head snapped forward and back, smarting when it hit the ground.
“Please,” Merlin wailed. “Kill me here, just run me through. Cut me down like any other enemy!” His voice jumped and jolted, losing volume as tears filled up his lungs and heart. He clutched Arthur’s hands where Arthur was still gripping him by his shirt. Merlin’s fingers dug in, pressing urgently into Arthur’s armored gauntlets. The metal gave no quarter nor comfort nor opportunity to touch Arthur’s skin. “Kill me. Just, please, anything but the fire.”
Arthur’s face was so close that Merlin could make it out despite the blurriness in his eyes. Arthur looked pale and like he was about to be sick. Merlin had the fleeting thought to get him to Gaius.
Like blood pouring from a deadly wound, Merlin kept begging. “Please, Arthur, anything but the fire. Please, anything but that.” He sobbed raggedly, lungs heaving for breath that never seemed to make it past his dry constricted throat. “I don’t want to burn. Please. I just don’t want to burn. Please, please, don’t burn me. Anything but that, Arthur, please. Not the pyre, please, don’t burn me.”
Arthur jerked Merlin upright and Merlin resisted as best he could, pushing against Arthur’s grip with arms and hands that trembled and shook. His side roared with fire at the movement, stealing the air from his lungs. He sobbed silently, mouth open and eyes shut. Hot tears scalded his cheeks.
Painfully, Arthur pulled Merlin against his breastplate. A hand threaded into Merlin’s hair and crushed his skull into Arthur’s armor.
Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, wondering if Arthur had the strength and leverage to break his neck like this. “Please,” he begged and wasn’t sure anymore if he wanted to be spared or killed here in Arthur’s arms. “Please.”
Arthur made a sound, something low and steady.
Merlin squirmed, but Arthur had shackled him with his strong arms and legs. Merlin couldn’t move more than one hand, but he found those fingers gripping frantically at Arthur’s sword belt, tucking into the tiny space between it and Arthur’s bloodied armor. Absently, he noticed that Arthur’s sword was gone from its sheath. Tears streamed down Merlin’s face, blurring his vision completely. He blinked, but couldn’t make anything out beyond the curve of Arthur’s chest and bicep.
“Please,” Merlin begged. “Please, not the fire.”
Arthur made the sound again.
The hand in Merlin’s hair moved. Compared to the fire, this was not a terrible way to go. Merlin had once seen someone break a chicken’s neck. The bird had squawked madly and then, instantly after, it had fallen silent. Arthur’s gauntlet caught a few hairs and tugged. Merlin winced, but did not try to pull away again. The pressure on his scalp and skull was soft, more like a caress than something that would end his life. Merlin’s eyes slipped shut at the sensation and he focused only on Arthur.
“Shh,” Arthur murmured.
“Please don’t,” Merlin whispered.
“Shh,” Arthur hummed. “Shh.”
Merlin opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His tongue was dry and coppery, his lips were chapped, and his throat burned. Clutching at Arthur’s armor, he gasped and wheezed for breath that stuck like a stone in his throat. Tears dripped down Merlin’s cheeks and soaked into his neckerchief.
“Shh, Merlin, shh.”
Slowly, Arthur’s voice percolated through Merlin’s panic. He held his breath and listened, every fiber of his soul poised on the precipice. He might fall and shatter into a thousand pieces… or he might be free to fly.
“Shh, Merlin. I’ve got you. I’m here,” Arthur whispered. His gauntleted hand stroked roughly over Merlin’s hair, snagging occasionally but never ceasing its movement. “Shh. I won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re okay. It’s okay. I’m here, Merlin, I’m here. I’ve got you. Shh.”
Merlin’s lungs burned for air, but he scarcely dared breathe. Was this a dream? Was he already dead?
“I’ve got you, Merlin. I won’t let anyone hurt you. I won’t let you burn. It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re okay. Your secret is safe, Merlin. I won’t let you die.”
Merlin couldn’t imagine, in his wildest nightmares, that Arthur would be holding him like this. It had to be a dream. Merlin must have already died, skewered on the battlefield by Arthur’s sword. It was a mercy and Merlin should have been grateful, but… Arthur’s graceless attempt at stroking Merlin’s tangled hair kept catching in Merlin’s mind. If this was a dream, Merlin expected there would be no pain, not even one as minor as a few pulled strands of hair.
“You’re alright,” Arthur continued. He hushed Merlin again, long and low like he was soothing a spooked horse. His gauntlet rasped over the back of Merlin’s skull, sending a twinge of pain through the welt where Merlin’s head had bounced off the ground. “I’ve got you, Merlin. I won’t let anything happen to you. Okay? Please, stop crying, please. It’s okay. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Merlin sucked in a wet breath, shuddering in Arthur’s arms. He couldn’t stop the tears streaming down his face, but he was able to close his mouth and just breathe.
“It’s okay, Merlin. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise, I promise. You’re okay. Your secret is safe, I won’t tell anyone. Don’t be scared. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Arthur continued. His arm was secure around Merlin’s back, his other hand pressing Merlin’s cheek to his armor. He had Merlin settled between his spread legs, pinning him in place like he was worried Merlin would try to run. “I won’t hurt you, Merlin. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
Merlin’s thundering heart and burning lungs began to abate, giving him room inside himself for something besides fear and panic, pain and despair. He could listen to Arthur’s whispered words, let them sink in like rain after a long drought. He blinked, taking in the bloodstained shine of Arthur’s armor. Merlin loosened his grip on Arthur’s sword belt and shifted his weight a little.
Arthur’s stroking hand paused for a moment and then resumed. He adjusted his grip enough for Merlin to move, but he didn’t release him.
“Arthur,” Merlin whispered. His voice emerged past his lips like a defenseless creature peeking out of its shell, tiny and tentative.
The torrent of soothing words cut off.
In that moment of silence, all Merlin could hear was his own heartbeat roaring in his ears.
Then, before he could think to try to run again, he realized he could hear Arthur’s too. Pressed close as he was, pinned against Arthur’s chest with Arthur’s hand in his hair and his face crushed against Arthur’s armor, he could hear the ragged pulse of Arthur’s concern. Fresh tears dripped down his cheeks and he bit his lip to keep from sobbing aloud. Was this a dream?
“Merlin?”
Arthur’s grip loosened very slightly. The hand in Merlin’s hair stilled again.
“Merlin?” Arthur asked softly. “Are you with me?”
Merlin nodded slowly.
Arthur let out a long breath. He sagged around Merlin, but still didn’t let him go. “You must have gone into shock. Are you okay?”
Merlin nodded again, a small simple jerk of his head. His brain felt like it was sloshing against the inside of his skull, a little boat tossed by towering waves.
Arthur didn’t say anything. It felt like he was waiting for Merlin to speak.
Merlin didn’t know if he could. He gripped fruitlessly at the smooth plane of Arthur’s armor with shaking fingers, trying to anchor himself in this dreamscape.
“So,” Arthur said haltingly. “You… you have magic…”
Merlin flinched. A little whine worked its way up his throat and past his clenched teeth. He clawed at Arthur’s armor, trying to find a grip to push away.
Arthur tightened his arms around Merlin’s body, holding him tight. “Don’t,” he blurted. “Don’t go. It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. I’d never hurt you, Merlin. You have to know that.”
Merlin’s shook his head weakly.
Arthur made a sound like he had taken a blow.
Merlin didn’t often hear that sound and it squeezed a fist in his stomach. “Arthur,” he whispered. “Is this…? Am I…?”
“You’re okay,” Arthur answered hastily. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
Merlin cringed.
“I won’t hurt you,” Arthur whispered. “I was surprised. That doesn’t excuse how I acted. I’m sorry I yelled. I was just…” He exhaled hard, his warm breath stirring the hair above Merlin’s ear and making him shiver. “I was surprised,” he repeated bleakly.
“I’m sorry,” was all Merlin could think to say. He was sorry—for everything, for hiding his magic, for revealing his secret, for not saying anything, for letting it slip, for being what he was, for not being good enough, for being so terrible. “I’m sorry,” he breathed into Arthur’s armor.
“It’s okay,” Arthur answered even though he couldn’t possibly know all the things Merlin had done. “It’s okay, Merlin.” His arms loosened a little more.
Merlin was exhausted. He was wrung out emotionally, physically, and magically. He felt like a used rag, a husk, a bone picked clean of meat.
“If I let go,” Arthur continued, “will you try to run again?”
Merlin shook his head.
“Good, good,” Arthur whispered. His voice was hoarse. “Because I can’t watch that again, Merlin, I just can’t. I can’t see you that way.”
“Sorry…”
Slowly, carefully, as though Merlin might spring away from him and run at any moment, Arthur first loosened his grip on Merlin’s hair.
Merlin tilted his neck, putting a little space between them. His cheek was numb where it had been pressed to Arthur’s armor, the ornate metalwork leaving a raised ridge on his cheekbone. Shakily, he brought a hand up to rub some life back into his aching skin. His fingers came away grubby with salt, dirt, and dried blood. Merlin wanted to look at Arthur, to memorize the face he had spent years serving, to try to pick out what Arthur was thinking or feeling, but he couldn’t bear to. What if he looked up and saw a lie? What if this was all just a fleeting dream?
When Merlin didn’t flee, Arthur uncoiled his arms and legs from around Merlin’s body. Cautiously, he untangled himself from Merlin and climbed to his feet. He had been sitting on the hard ground long enough that his backside had gone numb. Arthur groaned as he stretched his back and legs.
Merlin remained curled in the dirt, his face downcast.
Arthur offered him a hand up.
Merlin’s fingers shook slightly as he took it and let Arthur haul him to his feet. Sharply, Merlin’s twisted ankle reminded him of what had put him on the ground in the first place. Merlin hissed and gave a little limping hop, trying to take his weight off his ankle. His boot was too tight, the swelling pressing against the splint of buckles and worn leather.
“Oh,” Arthur murmured. He glanced from Merlin and then through the crop of white birches separating them from the rest of the battlefield. Honestly, he was surprised that none of his knights had come looking for them. Swallowing the worries that they were all injured or worse, Arthur focused instead on Merlin. “Can you walk?”
Merlin hobbled a few steps, gritting his teeth until the tendons stood out in his jaw. “Yes.”
Arthur regarded him silently. “Wait here a moment.”
Merlin didn’t protest as Arthur walked a few feet to fetch his discarded sword and slide it home. The sound made him flinch.
“Okay,” Arthur said to Merlin. “I’ll carry you.”
“What? No, I can walk.”
“You can’t,” Arthur informed him. “I think you broke your ankle.”
“It’s fine. You can’t carry me in full armor.”
Arthur pinched Merlin’s jacket between his fingers, holding him back when he tried to walk away. “Don’t argue with me,” he said sternly. “Let me help. Unless you can heal it with magic.”
Every joint and muscle in his body turned to stone at the mention. Merlin went so stiff that Arthur thought he might topple. “I,” Merlin began, “can’t.”
“Okay—”
Merlin continued, “I used too much magic during the battle. I have none left for myself. I can’t do… anything…” Merlin’s blue eyes flit to Arthur’s face, wide and glassy, red-rimmed from crying and bloodshot from stress. “I can’t defend myself… I’m helpless…”
“You don’t need to defend yourself,” Arthur said. “No one will hurt you, Merlin. I’ll make sure of it.”
Merlin hobbled a step, pain roaring up through his leg. He winced, bit his lip to stifle the sound of pain, and tried again.
“Let me help you,” Arthur insisted. He moved around in front of Merlin and crouched slightly, offering the broad expanse of his armored back.
Merlin’s breath came short at the display.
“Climb up, Merlin.”
Tentatively, Merlin touched Arthur’s shoulders.
“Come on.”
Stepping carefully backwards, Arthur insinuated himself against Merlin’s knees and then wrapped his hands around them. With a bit of pressure, he forced Merlin to shift forward and slide his knees around Arthur’s hips. Merlin’s hand fluttered lightly at Arthur’s shoulders before giving in and gripping tight. Arthur hefted Merlin up and gave a little bounce to settle his weight more evenly. Merlin stifled a little sound, his arms twining carefully around Arthur’s neck. He was mindful not to hold too tightly, even as the muscles in his thighs gripped around Arthur’s waist. Arthur was surprised by the weight of Merlin’s body.
“Not a word,” Arthur said warningly as he started walking.
“Of course,” Merlin answered lowly.
With Merlin on his back, walking was a laborious process that was made even more challenging by the fact that Arthur had to make it look effortless or else he knew Merlin would fight to limp instead. Holding him like this, Arthur could feel fine tremors running through Merlin’s body—little shivers and shudders that came from either pain or residual terror. Every time Arthur blinked, he couldn’t help but see Merlin again in that moment after the archer loosed a shot that should have ended the young prince’s life. It would have struck true if not for Merlin, if not for a young warlock, if not for magic. And yet, in that moment that followed, Arthur had shouted. On the backs of his eyes, he saw it again and again.
Merlin trying to run from Arthur.
Merlin crawling on his hands and knees.
Merlin sobbing and crying.
Merlin begging for a quick and painless death.
It was enough to turn Arthur’s empty stomach. He never wanted to see Merlin like that again. He had never thought himself capable of causing that kind of terror, that much pure anguish, that much suffering. He would hear in his nightmares that gut-wrenching sound from Merlin’s lips. Merlin, who had never once cowered in Arthur’s shadow, crumpled on the ground like a child pleading for his life—no, not even for his life, for a quick death.
“Kill me here. Cut me down like any other enemy!”
“Kill me. Just, please, anything but the fire.”
“I just don’t want to burn. Please, please, don’t burn me.” “
“Anything but that, Arthur, please.”
All Arthur wanted was to get Merlin somewhere safe so he could think about what this meant. Magic was at his side, in his corner, draped across his back in the form of one loyal friend. Arthur couldn’t un-know that.
Absently, he realized that Merlin was getting heavier. Merlin’s arms draped down Arthur’s chest, his grip light and soft, and Merlin’s forehead drooped into Arthur’s shoulder. He might have thought that Merlin had passed out if not for the way he still trembled faintly and the firm hold of his thighs around Arthur’s waist. Arthur tried to quicken his pace, sliding carefully down another small hill in a shower of loose rock.
At last, Arthur could see the pale canvas tent erected for Gaius to heal in. The knights were clustered outside, apparently gearing up to search for Arthur and Merlin. Had so little time really past? It felt like hours since Arthur had seen the arrow too late, had seen Merlin’s golden eyes too soon, had thrown aside his sword and sat there in the dirt while Merlin came unspooled in his arms.
“Lovely,” Arthur shouted when he was close enough to see that his knights were all accounted for and unharmed. “Just lovely. I’m struggling to get back and you lot are having a little party.”
Merlin straightened up, his fingers tightening on the top of Arthur’s armored shoulders.
“My lord,” Leon said and hastily made his way to Arthur’s side.
“Merlin!” Gwaine cried and rushed over to help Merlin slide down. When Merlin favored his ankle, Gwaine quickly ducked under his arm to support him. “What happened? We were just about to come looking for you.”
Merlin glanced at Arthur, his eyes wide and pleading.
“Merlin twisted his ankle,” Arthur said. It was the visible truth, but certainly not the whole truth. “I had to get him back.”
Leon clapped Arthur on the shoulder, smiling broadly. He was probably remembering a time when Arthur would have left someone behind rather than lowering himself to carrying them.
Arthur fought the urge to scoff at Leon’s cheer, as though it was ever in doubt that he would make sure Merlin came back to them in one piece. Merlin had changed Arthur for the better, bit by bit by bit. However, even as that thought flitted through his mind, he noticed Merlin staring at him and saw again the image of Merlin on his knees, crawling and begging, crying and pleading for a quick death. Perhaps, the one person who should have known how much he meant to Arthur, did in fact not know at all.
The moment passed.
“We’ll get you to Gaius and he’ll patch you up,” Gwaine told Merlin. He dragged Merlin a few hopping steps forward and they disappeared into the tent.
Gaius’s voice drifted out, followed by Gwaine laughing and Merlin’s soft answer.
Arthur realized he had forgotten his helmet, but he wasn’t about to walk all the way back for it. Instead, he abandoned it and went to check on his horse. He wanted nothing more than to put the battle with Dyfed behind them and get home to Camelot, but never before had the future felt so uncertain.
O=[]::::::::::::::>
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