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"Arthur!"
The cry pierces the fog of battle in Arthur's blood. With a final, desperate slash of his sword, he's already turning. He's spent years training and mastering the skill of finding Merlin in tiny glances while furiously fighting for his life against whoever has chosen to threaten him, his kingdom, or his people that time.
It takes him two flickers of his gaze, because enemy forces don't wait considerately for him to trade glances with his manservant. Merlin's eyes are wide and bloodied, from the oozing of a deep gouge at his hairline. Scarlet drops are falling like slow spring rain onto the body in his arms, and he looks so small and wounded and panicked that Arthur actually feels it suck at his heart.
He dispatches his next foe, felling the man in one strike, but there's another filling his space, and he can feel their line worming and angling between the circle of men who fight with their King.
"Leave him, Merlin! Get to safety!" he hollers, felling the next two just in time, one swinging his blade at an occupied Lancelot.
He isn't surprised to see Merlin dragging the Knight further from the fight. And really, in the shadowed dungeons of his heart, he is relieved. Merlin never has been one to abandon him in the heat of any danger. Nor to abandon their friends, even if all seems lost. It's a miracle the scrawny man has never been more seriously wounded. Arthur now demands Merlin wears a sword of his own, and chainmail when he can get him in it, if they're expecting trouble.
But this wasn't supposed to be trouble. This was supposed to be a journey to speak with a magic encampment. He's already found that an unarmed, unburdened Merlin works like some sort of charm on negotiations with magic users.
Arthur kills yet another broad and rabid bandit, wishing he'd made Merlin bring his equipment anyway. From now on, he'll have it packed in a saddlebag. Every time. No matter how the man grumbles.
His shoulders are burning, and yet more fur-bearing men have flooded the tiny clearing. He's never lost before, certainly not with the skill of his Knights around him, but it's difficult not to feel the cold slide of worry in his gut at the situation now.
Camelot's best fighters might be far better skilled, but they are outnumbered by more than they've faced before. And enemy numbers are growing again.
A grunt beside him, the thud of knees on the trampled forest floor. He swings his blade viciously over Gwaine's bowed head, negating the attempted killing blow from a man as big as Percival. His shield arm is already thrusting out on his other side and really, he's lucky he's practiced the move so many thousands of times that's he's lightning fast, arms drawn back in before his opponents can even register the way he'd left his middle exposed. He can only spare a glance, but Gwaine's not getting up, and his dwindling number of men are already sidestepping, crowding the rogue behind them, closing their ranks.
Arthur knows he shouldn't, but he looks for Merlin.
His hands are pressed over Leon's prone form, fingers skimming his chest, the mail of his hawberk pooled up around his shoulders to expose his opened gambeson and torn undershirt underneath. For a split second, Arthur swears his manservant's eyes are glowing.
Their battle continues. Relentless. Savage. And he knows he's not the only Knight whose finesse is failing with fatigue, technique falling away to be replaced by sloppier, angrier brute force.
They're not going to last.
Percival hauls him a step backwards as a hungry glint of steel passes into his periphery. He has no time for thanks, and Percival has no time to hear it, anyway.
This is bad. Arthur has spent his entire life being trained to ignore doubt, to disallow its encroachment into the ranks of his reserve. The cold chill of it is barred from his mind.
But it is invading now; slippery, squirming behind his knees to try and falter his stance, crawling up his spine as though to reach for his sword arm. He shakes at it, even as he bests another attacker, but it won't leave him.
It's an infection. He cannot allow it to take him over. He cannot allow it to scuttle over his skin to jump ship to his Knights. If Arthur falls to it, they will surely follow. He cannot lose his confidence.
Another glance, one he cannot afford, and he sees Leon. His eyes are open, his arms pushing him up from Merlin's lap, his face flooding with renewed colour and life. Arthur does falter then, his arm pausing, because his First Knight, his oldest friend, his brother in all but blood, had surely been pacing the threshold of Death's Domain. He hadn't had time to properly look him over, merely offer the swift and clinical -cruel- assessment of a soldier with little time to dwell. But he'd seen the wound. He'd seen the speed at which the blood had flowed. He'd known, even if he wasn't allowed the time yet to grieve, that Leon was surely lost.
But he's on his feet, and steady on them, allowing Merlin's swift adjustment of his clothing and armour, faster than any servant of any man Arthur has ever seen. He's already holding his sword again and striding towards them from the leafy edges, slashing furiously at the backs of Percival's attackers.
The element of surprise is enough, even with Leon's enraged roar as he slashes and shoves, knocking men into each other, creating a glorious opportunity for the Knights to dispatch a dozen or more in one unspoken, instinctive display of unity.
Leon shoves to their ranks, but instead of joining their tight circle, he leaves his back under the protection of Lancelot and Percival and reaches behind them, hauling Gwaine from safety.
Arthur wants to argue, to scream the insanity of such a move, but something has nicked his arm, in the sliver under his chainmail and above his shield strap. He cannot spare the time to see what Leon is doing, and they kill another dozen men before Arthur can cast his head around for just a second, and realise Leon is beside him again, shoulder to shoulder between him and Lancelot. Despite everything, the knowledge his not-by-blood-brother is right there where he should be eases something secret in Arthur's ribs.
And Gwaine is curled on his side by Merlin's kneel, more alive than Leon looked but no less deathly. While he hasn't grown with Gwaine the depth of the bond he has with Leon, it cuts deep to see him laid so low. His Father would have had his head if he'd ever voiced it, but these men are his family. As time trudges on and Arthur grows more and more into his own man, really they feel more his family than even his own sire. Gwaine squirms and weakly flails, but Merlin is stripping his armour, hands flying over each piece. Unhindered by the dying man's jerking limbs. Arthur hasn't time to see more than the vivid maroon of the gash in Gwaine's gut, must turn back as he is jostled by a new wave of ferocity.
They weren't just ambushed. It's a clawing, terrifying realisation that they're facing an army. An endless tide. Arthur can't feel his sword arm anymore, but still it swings, the most basic of his ingrained instincts.
If he cannot somehow turn this tide, he's going to lose his men here. His friends. His unspoken family.
He's long since stopped listening properly, his ears too far rung by the bellowing clangs of steel on steel, by the foreign screams and roaring of every man, but that doesn't stop him hearing the cry.
"Above you!"
Arthur's gaze flicks as though that phrase is shot straight into his head, knowing exactly where to look, and yes. Merlin is right. There, in high perches in the thick set trees, men are climbing, settling, and drawing bows from their shoulders.
Then this is it.
The battle seems to lose colour, slowing to the pace of snails as the inevitable knowledge settles like a solid, sun-boiled boulder on Arthur's consciousness. He has no time to warn anyone, and no good would it do anyway, they're probably all just as aware and just as sure there's nothing they can do, penned in like cattle by the ever-growing ring of men.
Arthur thinks fleetingly, as he lowers his sword, that someone must be hauling the bodies away. At least some of them, for the sea of foes to keep their footing on the blood-drenched grass and soil.
Light bursts across the clearing as the first barrage of arrows arc through the sky. They glow like sunbeams through fog, a diving flock of steel-beaked birds descending at a near-frozen pace as the world stills around him.
He's sure he heard a shout from the outskirts, and as he turns his head, forgetting for the first time the continuous attack, his eyes catch Merlin.
There are things he's waited too long to say. Things he wanted Merlin to know, to hear from Arthur's lips, before the day came where he would be felled. Words that could always be put off until suddenly, that day is here, and he hasn't let them see light.
Merlin's face is pale and twisted with a horrible terror, thrown up from the Knight beneath him, eyes wide and horrified and- and golden in the light. He's frozen there like everything else seems to be, one bloodied hand reaching fruitlessly towards the arrows as though he can stop them.
Arthur's eyes well. His breath is stolen from him and his heart spasms and struggles and wrenches in his chest that there's nothing he can do to stop this, nothing he can do to ease Merlin's petrification, nothing he can say now, with the distance and the men and the mess of battle between them.
And suddenly, even though everything is still in this strange, almost-stopped, moving-through-thick-treacle state, Merlin's eyes are meeting his, and more anguished than terrified, and the warm golden candlelight in them is flickering back to the dark blue of the night sky.
Time crashes back into place with an explosion.
Arthur can't help but cringe, lowering his head against the inevitable and pushing his shield up in the face of the soldier before him. He vaguely senses his Knights do the same.
It's a delayed realisation. The swarm is pushing against their shields, but it's lessening.
No arrow has landed. There is confused shouting woven within the battle cries. Arthur readies his sword and shifts his stance. He draws a breath.
"Sire!"
Elyan. A quaver note in his voice, but not pain. Arthur risks the twist to glance over his shoulder. Elyan's eyes are on the trees.
"Back at it!" Arthur yells, and his men lower their shields with him as one, and he gets a look for himself.
Between the press of bodies, bodies who are now turning, losing focus, he sees the treeline. Every perch is empty. He casts his eyes across them all but not one holds a bowman any longer. He thrusts his sword in a gap and gouges the stomach of a distracted enemy, knocking another back and bleeding with the blade as he withdraws it at an angle.
The crowd thins noticeably. Not all at once, but like the splitting of a log. Arthur realises there is shouting further off and he cranes his head at once.
Dread grips his blood as he sees them streaming towards the edge of the clearing in the same second that Gwaine hollers his name.
He's on his feet again, his gambeson and hawberk back in place, if untidily. He doesn't look dead or dying. Arthur pushes the shock aside. He has no time to question their good fortune.
"To Gwaine!" he yells, but his men already know.
The push together, achingly slow, but there are a growing number of backs turned to them, and that makes their progress swifter. Arthur forces down panic. He can't see Merlin. He's lost sight of Gwaine, but he knows he must still stand, or their foes would regroup and turn back to him and the others in force. He prays his footing will be sure as they trample the dead and dying. He prays the fallen don't get lucky with a dagger or a sword's edge. Percival and Lancelot make sure as many receive a final blow as possible, holding the other side of the circle as they pace backward to stay grouped.
Arthur knows this as surely as he would had he commanded it. His men are skilled. His group tight, united, and balanced. They'd never have survived this far without that bond, that knowledge. He swears they know his orders before he gives them.
There's commotion up ahead. That's saying something, while a battle still rages, but it grows louder and louder and then there are gaps everywhere, the remaining men - dozens of them, more - are losing formation. Their ranks are breaking. Someone has thrown chum in the water and the waves are suddenly an erratic bubbling of uncoordinated activity.
Suddenly, a full grown man sails over Arthur's head. He must weigh more than Leon, more than him, but he's thrown in a high arc like he's nothing but a swatted fly. Screaming breaks out. There's no battle, now. It's a riot, arms everywhere, men falling back onto their swords with little effort on the part of the Knights.
There is blinding light, as though someone has tossed a star into the clearing, flashing and flickering with the screams and yet making no sound of its own.
A chill runs down Arthur's spine and into his legs.
Magic. It must be. They have a sorcerer, and suddenly it looks like their good luck will sour yet again. He flexes his fingers around the grip of his shield. His shoulder tenses with the weight of his sword.
The sea parts, and Arthur cannot breathe.
Gwaine is backed against a tree. His shield is gone, his sword furious, blood smeared across his face and neck. He looks wild. Savage. He is roaring, teeth bared like a cornered animal. No trace of his usual flippancy, none of even his rare solemnity. He looks haggard and ravaged and there are things in his tousled, matted hair that Arthur can't stomach the thought of.
His shield arm is thrown out, trapping a blood-drenched figure behind him, and Arthur knows it must be him, it can only be him, but the man's whole face is shrouded, his tunic has no colour bar the gore. His hair sways as though in a wind that cannot touch Arthur, even from these meagre yards away.
His mouth is twisted in a snarl and his eyes blaze molten, so gold they're almost white, so blinding Arthur can't look at them directly. He howls, throaty and low and frightening, and Arthur isn't the only one who falters at the sound.
Left and right, bandits are falling, and Arthur can't quite comprehend the bizarre sight. Several fall on their own swords, two are thrown bodily into trees with sickening thwacks. One man bursts into flame and quickly catches on his comrades, flooding the clearing with the smell of melting flesh and burning fabric and boiling blood, screaming hard enough to tear their throats as they burn and crumple into silence faster than any man on any pyre Arthur's ever seen.
It's uncanny, unsettling, unnatural, and horrifying.
Arthur chokes on the smoke, even as he tries to shake his wits back into place, and even his tight circle of Knights has oblonged, the circle bending and then breaking, as they look to Arthur.
He shoves down his fear. He quells the bone-deep instinct to run. He rolls his wrist, twirling his blade, clinging to the familiar weight, the familiar extension of his own arm.
"We're not finished."
His voice sounds a lot surer than he feels, and Arthur is grateful for that as he leads his men into the clean up, not knowing how he can possibly hold onto the hope that he and his men will be safe from the sizzle of energy he can feel thrumming angrily in the air.
His boot connects solidly with the arse of the man in front of him, and as they fall like skittles, he dispatches them without mercy. There will be no surrender here, no risking truce. Rogues, and bandits, and solitary trouble are one thing. But an enemy who can send an army must be shown their own thorough defeat. A show of force is necessary, however distasteful. Arthur will lick his wounds later, and lament the massive loss of human life.
This part of the forest will forever be stained with this much blood. Mere rain cannot wash that away.
A huge brute barrels past Leon to rush at Arthur. He slides his back foot further back to shift his weight in preparation, flinging up his sword to stop the one coming for his throat.
But the man is slammed to the side by an invisible impact, lifting high off the ground like an empty corn husk on a breeze, flying clean across the clearing at an ungodly speed and crashing into the canopy so hard that his fall brings down several thick branches with him.
Arthur's gaze flicks to Merlin. He cannot explain it. He couldn't even try to start.
Merlin's chest is heaving. His snarl has fallen away. His eyes dim as Arthur looks, and piece by piece he seems to come back to himself. His blue eyes - Gods, so blue, the bluest things Arthur has ever seen - are dark and full. Full of everything. He looks so small, all at once, in an instant he is so undeniably Merlin again.
Arthur can't breathe. This revelation is so unfathomably huge that he can't seem to form any thought at all. Battle is still singing and thundering in his blood. It's still happening, all around him. But they've won, now. They're only just outnumbered, one more push and it's over.
Yet for one long, incomprehensible moment, he can't remember how to move. Merlin looks... Wrecked. His eyes are wet, his lashes clumped with blood and sweat. His shoulders are hauled back with the force of every inhale. Arthur wants to... He doesn't know. He cannot stand to look at him like that.
It seems Merlin can't stand to look at him either, because he lowers his gaze and dips his head, and with one twist of his hand, the whittled number of enemies drops to zero.
The forest falls abruptly silent. Deathly so. The world hasn't frozen like it did earlier, the air is broken by the panting of the survivors. But nobody moves for what feels like an age.
And then Gwaine drops back against the tree trunk, and slides to his backside, and Merlin moves to him so swiftly that Arthur flinches.
It's broken the spell. It begins to dawn on them all that it's over. Elyan lets out a wet, disbelieving, torn chuckle. Percival joins him. There's nothing funny. Nothing about any of this is funny. But the sudden reprieve of an almost certain death sentence does queer things to a person. Leon helps Lancelot shuck his ruined, rent cloak.
Someone touches his shoulder, but it's as though through a fog, for Arthur can't take his eyes from the sight of Merlin stripping Gwaine's top half and placing hands on his skin. He's muttering, his voice trembling quietly, but his fingers stay steady as they almost dance across Gwaine's abdomen.
His dark head is bowed, as though he's making himself as small as possible as he kneels over the Knight, but Gwaine's head is propped uncomfortably against the split bark, and his half-lidded eyes are watching Arthur.
It feels bizarrely like a warning.
When Merlin finishes whatever he's whispering, the sliver of air between his hands and Gwaine's skin glows a soft, gentle blue, sinking like mist into the skin and disappearing. Arthur's breath catches.
Gwaine takes a careful breath, and grins on the exhale. That seems to be enough for Merlin, who stands and hauls the heavier man to his feet with ease, instantly aiding in the redressal, although Gwaine accepts the clothing from him and pulls it on himself, eventually allowing the servant to help with his hawberk with a wry, but fond, expression.
Finally, Merlin rests a shaky hand on Gwaine's chest and says something that makes Gwaine's face shutter, and steps back.
He sets his shoulders and turns to face the clearing.
He's covered, head to toe. Arthur didn't see how the majority of the mess happened, but suddenly he desperately wants to, to know what happened, to understand how a man unarmed - well, not exactly unarmed - and bearing no protection is still standing after what they've just gone through, whose blood it is, that stains his arms and his tunic and his breeches? The wound on his head has stopped bleeding freely, but the evidence of it is painted all across his pale face.
Merlin lifts his gaze slowly, reluctantly. And finally meets Arthur's once more.
He's moved before thinking it, striding over piles of dead. He reaches for Merlin's arm and is greeted by Gwaine's, as the rogue thrusts Merlin a few steps behind him.
Arthur throws him a questioning frown, but Gwaine stays his place. Ridiculous. Merlin may need aid. Arthur must assess him. He shoves the insolent Knight aside, but gets only a half-step further before the man bars his way again, this time with his sword in his hand.
It isn't raised, even Gwaine is not that stupid. But he has it in hand, and suddenly Arthur is certain that if he drew his own, he'd have to use it.
The shock of the thought startles him back a step. Gwaine's face is set and serious, his brown eyes locked on Arthur. The sheer audacity stills him for a moment.
And then Merlin's hand is on Gwaine's elbow, and he's gently pushing the man aside, and shaking his head at him.
"Gwaine." he croaks.
But Gwaine is still looking at Arthur with that impassive expression, and Merlin only sighs in response to being ignored.
Arthur looks to Lancelot, the first in his periphery, but the quiet, loyal Knight lowers his gaze and dips his head. Elyan drops his eyes as though he hasn't seen his King turning to him. Percival looks from Arthur to Gwaine and clenches his jaw. Bewildered, Arthur looks to Leon.
And Leon looks torn. His deep eyes are pained as he meets Arthur's look without hiding.
"Leon?"
His voice doesn't sound sure at all now. Not the strong and commanding presence that it was just moments ago.
Leon's expression grows further strained, and his gaze flickers to Gwaine and Merlin before meeting his again.
Not Leon. Surely not Leon.
His First Knight exhales and there is weight to the sound as he lowers his head a fraction.
"Gwaine." he says quietly.
And Arthur can hear the hurt.
Gwaine snorts, and crosses his arms, and doesn't move.
"Gwaine." Merlin tries, his voice strained and thick with an emotion Arthur can't quite place, "Please."
Gwaine growls and knocks Merlin back with one elbow, but he stills when the younger man sighs and steps around him again.
Dark blue eyes meet Arthur's with determination, and suddenly it dawns on Arthur why.
The Magic. He's been so caught up in the urge to check Merlin over, that he's neglected to acknowledge or consider what this means. What it could mean.
"Are you wounded?" he asks, and wonders whether he sounds like a King to anyone else.
Merlin blinks, his lips parting in surprise, his brows furrowing as he looks fleetingly at the others.
"Beyond the head wound."
Merlin looks cautious as he slowly shakes his head.
"No, my lord."
Arthur nods. And clears his throat.
"Leon? What of your wound?"
His hesitation is clear, but he answers obediently.
"Merely a graze, Sire."
Arthur saw it himself. He saw both the blow and the wound, albeit from several yards away. He doesn't say as much. He's sure Leon knows that.
Arthur turns to Gwaine and raises an eyebrow. Gwaine, the bastard, simply raises one in return. Arthur grits his teeth.
"And yours?"
Gwaine shrugs lazily, disrespect in every muscle.
"I got better."
Everyone is holding their breath. Arthur can tell. Wounds taken in the heat and all-consuming chaos of battle aside, they all saw what happened after.
"Bowmen in the trees?" he demands of the clearing, waiting impatiently as noone answers him.
He's growing angry when Merlin speaks, head down, voice respectfully neutral and quiet.
"Fell off their perches, my lord."
As he'd guessed. No men were there when he looked again. No arrows had landed. But they had been fired.
"Their arrows?" he tries, knowing already the answer he'll get.
"Went off-target, my lord."
"Hm."
Merlin shifts, and Arthur can see how much he's hating this exchange. About as much as Arthur is, probably.
"Merlin."
His manservant flinches.
"Sire?"
And what to say? How was he supposed to begin this conversation? This series of conversations, because surely one would not be enough? But he can't just leave it. It's clear that it's hanging over Merlin. And Arthur isn't blind enough to miss that. It would be cruel to leave it unaddressed. They're days from Camelot, and they haven't even fulfilled the reason they'd left in the first place. They're a day yet from the village they're headed for. At minimum, a week from seeing their castle again. A week is a long time to wonder whether you're heading to the pyre, or the gallows, or the axeman. And somehow, he knows Merlin wouldn't run, wouldn't creep off into the woods when night fell. He'd follow Arthur back, to face his fate. Faithful, even then.
Arthur sighs heavily. Today has already been far too much. There's still too much more to do.
"You pulled both Leon and Gwaine from the brink."
It's not a question, but Merlin treats it as one, peeking at Arthur between his blood-clumped lashes. It makes Arthur's stomach churn.
"Yes, Sire."
Arthur feels his face twitch. The drying blood is tacky and disgusting on his skin. He can't imagine how Merlin feels, with even his clothes glued to him with the stuff.
"Will they require any... Tending to? Their wounds?"
Merlin pales and shakes his head guiltily. His voice is a tiny, whispered answer.
"No, my lord."
Arthur had expected that. It's still frightening to hear. And a relief.
"Good. See if you can find water. I think we all need a good cleaning. Lancelot, Gwaine, go with him."
Six pairs of eyes look at him in surprise, but he continues on as though he can't see them.
"Percival, Elyan, firewood. While you're looking, see if any of you can't find a better place than this to build a fire. Leon, with me. Let's find those bloody horses."
He strides off without a glance, knowing they'll obey. He winces internally about his graceless handling of their situation, but holds out hope they're all too tired and sore and hungry to really notice.
"My lord, if I may?" Leon addresses him after a long ten minutes of silence, well past earshot of the rest of their company.
Arthur looks up from his feet.
"You may, Leon. You always may, you know that."
Leon's smile is small, but fond.
"What's to happen to him? Merlin, I mean."
Arthur frowns at him.
"What do you mean?"
And Leon, bless him, looks torn. It isn't possible that Arthur could have missed Merlin's display. There have certainly been times in the past where Magic wasn't his first answer to strange happenings, but only a fool would miss it this time. Leon is weighing his answer, reluctant to speak of Merlin's revelation out of clear loyalty to the man, but unwilling to admit there's any possibility his King is an idiot.
"His... Skills, as they appear to be, Sire."
Arthur takes pity on him and gives a humourless laugh and a shake of his head.
"I don't even know where to begin," he admits, "but I'm sure there will be time for that when we return home."
Leon frowns, but falls quiet again. And though he hasn't had any time to think about it, Arthur easily comes to a decision then. So easily that perhaps he always would have.
"He'll be safe in Camelot."
It seems a great relief has lifted from Sir Leon, and Arthur can't blame him. If he'd been snatched from death by a sorcerer, wouldn't he feel the same about then watching him die?
"That is good news, Arthur."
Arthur laughs properly that time, and is rewarded with a grin. He knocks elbows with Leon as they come across several horses, his own Llamrei among them, calmly picking clean a raspberry bush as though they hadn't bolted from an impending massacre.
"I can hardly hang him. Who would hold the target for mace practice?"
Leon snorts in reply, and gathers the reins.
~•~
When they return to the clearing, having successfully retrieved all their horses, they find Percival leaning against a tree on the far side. He straightens at their arrival, and bids they follow him. The creatures snort and flair their nostrils as they reluctantly let themselves be led around the edges of the clearing filled with death. Arthur hangs back, running a soothing palm down Llamrei's blaze and losing himself in his thoughts, but he knows by the indecipherable murmuring heard under the hoofbeats and the relaxing of Percival's shoulders that Leon has passed on his words.
He should feel disgruntled, to be spoken about as if he isn't five feet behind them, but he hasn't the energy.
Their new clearing is smaller than the one they'd fought in, but it's free from blood and churned ground and an army of broken bodies, so it already feels like a tiny green paradise.
Elyan is already most of the way through the task of clearing and building the pit for their fire, arranging dry kindling twigs and leaves, a stack of larger branches hacked into thin logs beside him. Arthur and the others fall easily into the rhythm of emptying saddlebags of what they need, and settling the horses with feed by the longest of the grazing grass.
When Merlin, Gwaine and Lancelot return with news of water, it's evident that they hadn't stayed long before returning, barely cleaning their faces. But, Arthur supposes, with the horses bolting, the water skeins had too.
Merlin doesn't meet his eyes, not even when he steps into place by the horse next to Llamrei, rubbing thumbs down her nose even as she snorts and makes known her displeasure for his smell. His lips turn up in a weak smile, and Arthur wishes he could think of something comforting to say to ease the obviously turmoil on the sorcerer's face. His mind is so disjointed that he's not confident he'll be able to avoid saying the wrong thing. Arthur has grown a lot, since even his coronation, and he can feel the fragile peace in the air. He's fairly sure that Merlin won't run off into the forest, but saying the wrong thing, or even the right thing worded the wrong way, could change that. He can't bear to risk it.
Mallow, Merlin's mare - or as good as, for she favours him, and he always chooses her for excursions - seems to get over the coppery tang dousing Merlin much quicker than the others, and bumps her forehead to his shoulder. Merlin gives a little huff, and when she lifts her head with a tacky red smear near one eye, he scrubs it away gently with his fingertips.
Arthur saw the power Merlin wields, there is absolutely no denying that. But looking at him now, caring gently for his mare as she eats horse feed from his palm and let's him stroke her ear, he has such softness in his gaze, such compassion. They're the same eyes that they all saw glowing golden like fire as he slaughtered men like it was nothing. But they're also not.
Arthur has seen his men in battle with expressions they'd never wear elsewhere, with murder in their eyes and blood in their teeth. It shouldn't be so shocking to meld the two versions of Merlin together the way he does with every good man he's ever seen kill. But Arthur has never considered Merlin to be capable. It's simply never occured to him, for all his angry outbursts, his reckless words and fierce nature. The man still grumbles about "being dragged on hunts", even as he packs and readies everything they'll need, as if staying behind has never occured to him. He's always quieter after they've caught their prey, solemn with the deaths of even rabbits, even wood pigeons, and Arthur is sure he's seen him watery-eyed over does hunted for Harvest Feasts. It's been many a year since he's even had Merlin haul home the braces of pheasants, or bags of rabbits. With plenty of excuses ready on his tongue, Arthur always hands them off to one of the others. He's never been challenged, and it's been a long time since they even looked surprised. He's seen death, in one form or another, most of his life. He's seen Guards kill invaders, even servants at times have killed rats or rabid dogs, put down lame horses. Slaughter farm animals for feasting, though of course he's not usually privy to that sort of work. And it's never been something to think about, really. His Knights are good men, brave and loyal and true. Seeing them kill has always just been something that needed doing. Part of life.
And yet, it just doesn't feel the same. Not with Merlin. The notion of Merlin killing is just... Incomprehensible.
So Arthur says nothing, even as they divide up the horses between them, leaving Elyan and Percival - the marginally cleaner of the seven - to guard their camp as they make their way to the stream.
It's a further walk than they'd like, but with no closer spot suitable for setting up camp, they'll have to make do. Lancelot settles the horses to drink a little upstream. Arthur hasn't faired too badly, all things considered. There are stains on his gambeson and he has to change his mud-splattered, bloodied breeches, but besides that it's a quick wash of his top half and a fresh tunic. Leon strips beside him, using a waterskein to rinse the blood and mud from his hair, and without being obvious, Arthur eyes his torso. Besides a sizeable new scar across his chest, he bears almost no marks from the day. The scar looks at least a week healed, still red and tender-looking, but fully sealed without any swelling or scabbing. It sends a new wave of fear down Arthur's spine at the sheer power suggested in such instant healing, but also an awed sense of relief.
It's obvious that Leon's chances of surviving such a wound would require a miracle. Arthur isn't yet ready to say goodbye to the man he most considers a brother.
Lancelot seems almost done already, his gambeson taking the worst of it but faring better than him on the legs. Gwaine and Merlin are performing their own cleaning, slightly further downstream, perhaps on purpose. Arthur sits down on a rock to re-don his boots, watching without meaning to. Gwaine has Merlin perched on the bank, still fully clothed but with water up past the knees. The older man is pouring a skein of water slowly over the other's head, brushing and scrubbing out the gore with his fingers. It's methodical, thorough but not rough. There's a very clear intimacy there that Arthur hasn't taken notice of before. Of course, he's always known Gwaine and Merlin to be friends, his manservant was the first to befriend the cheeky bastard, what with being one himself. He'd known all that, and yet he hadn't even considered that Gwaine would therefore be more loyal to Merlin, a peasant but a good man, over his own King. As he moves to put on his second boot, Arthur ponders it. It really shouldn't surprise him, is the conclusion he comes to. It's no secret that Merlin is well loved in Camelot, more so now than ever before. The nobles don't have a particular fondness for him, but all the servants do, and everyone Arthur has ever seen him interact with in the citadel and lower town, in the villages on Camelot's outskirts, even with the magic users and the Druids, had obviously taken to him quickly. He'll never say so out loud, but he isn't so sure that all his people loved him more than they did Merlin. He'll also never voice his supicion that many might love him more than before because of Merlin. He's not blind that Merlin brought him Gwaine, Lancelot. True, they wanted to be Knights, and Arthur was the one to Knight them. But he has a feeling they might never have joined him if not for Merlin. Gwaine, certainly, and Lancelot had spoken of leaving, years ago. Was Merlin the reason he'd changed his mind?
Merlin has always had faith in Arthur, that much anyone knows. Arthur has had many a reminder, many an impassioned lecture (rant) when his confidence has been lowest, from the wiry younger man. Is it madness to consider that perhaps... others might have heard those words as well?
As he watches Lancelot join them, shooing Gwaine off to do his own cleaning, it becomes apparent why there was such a reluctance after battle. Lancelot grins as he says something in reponse to whatever Merlin has said, and while Arthur has had the same easy friendship with his men, it's clear he's never considered they're just as fond of Merlin. Perhaps even as fond of him as Arthur is. Lancelot peels Merlin's ruined tunic from his bony arms, and sets about Merlin's shoulders with a cloth. Arthur's heart drops just a little at the sheer amount of blood on Merlin's ivory skin, forgetting even to notice that one of his Knights is washing the back of a peasant like he were a Noble. Even though his tunic, it has stained him almost unbroken. What on earth had he done to get in such a state? Bathed in the mud beneath the dead? Lancelot is efficient, handing over the cloth when Merlin's back in cleaner, and rinsing him down with a fresh skein. Gwaine, seemingly done with his own bathing, walks back towards them through the waisthigh water, mischief on his face.
The aftermath of intense battle does indeed do queer things to people. Elyan and Percival had laughed long and humourlessly, and for the most part the others seem to be left as drained and restless as himself, with no energy to utilise it. Gwaine has always been different after battle. Restless, but refreshed, as though fed by the flames of it. His hands land on Merlin's thighs a second after Arthur guesses his intent, and the manservant is dragged screeching into the water by his knees.
"Should I intervene?"
The voice by his shoulder startles him, his face rushing hot at what might be thought of him, to be caught watching.
Leon looks down to him, an amused eyebrow raised as he tips his chin at the childish play before them. Arthur's nerves ease and he laughs.
"Leave them be. I swear Gwaine never left childhood, sometimes."
Leon's snort is fond but exasperated as he settles on the grass next to Arthur's perch, and Arthur himself is more than familiar with the feeling. Merlin had resurfaced spluttering and cursing, but now he gives just as good as he gets from the friend grinning like a loon and crashing around throwing waves of water at him. Letting off steam, whatever form it takes, is important. Arthur has learned that lesson, even if his father never had. Image and reputation are crucial, any deviation will be viewed as weakness and invite the attention of enemies looking for opportunity. But to never let that ragged creature out, especially so soon after facing your own mortality, could be fatal itself. Uther lost more than a few Knights to that beast. Arthur is determined not to do the same.
Lancelot sits by the edge still, and Arthur realises he's scrubbing Merlin's tunic between two rocks, in an attempt to cleanse it. Arthur would just have burned it, and thrown a new one at his manservant the next day they were home, but perhaps there's something of a thank you in Lancelot's actions, for the way Merlin had turned the tide for them. Arthur anticipates the expression Merlin will wear when he sees the gesture, doey eyed and soft, his smile warm and his voice breathless. The way he always goes when anybody does anything kind for him. Even Arthur. Even for small things.
Thinking on that, Arthur wonders whether there's really any way he could convince himself that Merlin is a danger. Terrifying displays of forbidden Magic aside, the man is... softer. Fierce, yes, full of insults and fire and insolence, braver than any man he's ever met. But in terms of his... soul, Merlin was gentle. Arthur had seen much of it, over the years. There was a reason everybody was so fond of him.
They head back to relieve the others soon after, Merlin shivering intermittently despite the warmth of the Spring evening. It doesn't take long for the heat of the newly lit fire to calm the shakes, and Merlin sits with his knees tucked up under his chin, staring into the flames as he tends the cooking pots. Rabbits, already skinned and quartered and set in the pots awaiting water when they returned. And Arthur is struck by his own earlier thoughts. He'd thought the Knights no longer surprised by being handed fresh kills, simply because habit falls into place easily enough. But Percival and Elyan have prepared the rabbits, a task Merlin has always been vocal about hating, and they've disposed of the insides and pelts out of sight too. Not out of habit, but for Merlin. And Arthur sees it, the peek over the rim of the pot, the look shot to the two Knights, the grateful little smile. Percival bumps Merlin with an elbow as he passes, Elyan squeezes his shoulder, makes a comment about how clean he looks that Arthur doesn't catch.
Maybe he is a bit slow, as Merlin is always saying. He considers these six men his family. It has never truly occured to him that they may all feel just as strongly. The thought catches in his throat a little, unexpected, and he busies himself with stripping the saddles from the horses so they too can rest unencumbered. Mallow nickers at him as he removes the bridle, and flicks her ears away when he reaches up to give her a reassuring pat. He chuckles, settling for rubbing the knuckle of his forefinger down her blaze as she's used to.
When he's done all the busywork he can find, Arthur resigns himself to settling too. He eases gently onto a log not far for Merlin, lest he spook the faraway look from his eyes. Merlin's hand is stirring the bigger pot, a steady rhythm to stop the meat from burning on the hottest side, but he's not really there. Arthur often wonders where Merlin goes, when he gets like this, and he supposes that now maybe he knows. Despite all he knows on Magic - more than he ever did while his father was alive - and all the complexities he's learned, all the new depth to the topic that his father had refused to hear, he's still wary. He supposes that at least now he knows why Merlin has always eased the approaches he's made to the peaceful magic-users, the hesitant meetings, the tentative truces. The promises of no more purging, no deaths so long as Magic stays out of Camelot's walls.
He's failed at that, too. All this time, Magic was not only within the walls, but free to roam as far into the heart of it as his own chambers. The taste of it burns on his tongue. He's never suspected. He's never believed it, not when accusations were hurled at his manservant by invading sorcerers, by the witchfinder all that time ago. He'd never... He'd never seen it. All those hours, every day, year upon year. Not once had he witnessed it. The betrayal of it hurts, deep in his core, even if he knows why. Why Merlin had never told him, never trusted him, never... Never let him see.
Did he truly believe Arthur would kill him for it? Arthur supposes that he must, because he doesn't know why else his closest friend would keep it from him still. With Uther long dead and gone.
But with the laws still in place, barely modified. Guilt coats his teeth.
A terrible misery crawls onto Arthur's lap like a cat, sinking into his skin. For all their years, the depth of their bond, the very fact that Arthur trusts him with his life, and has done so many times already, he has unknowingly kept his very existence illegal. And so Merlin has kept his secret.
Right until doing so would cost Arthur and the Knights their lives.
Merlin could have run. When it became clear everything was lost, he could have, and Arthur doesn't even think he would have blamed him. It would have hacked the knees from his confidence, that much he's certain of. But Merlin could have left them to it and taken the headstart the length of their holdout would have bought him. But he'd stayed. He'd brought back Leon, brought back Gwaine. Blown bowmen from the trees, thrown their arrows off-target. He'd dropped men on their own swords, thrown them clear across the clearing, set them on fire. And dropped their comrades with no words. The shiver tears through Arthur at the chill of the recollection. It is so unfathomably difficult to relate that simple turning of a wrist; cold, detached, effortlessly felling nearly a dozen men instantly, with the gentleness of the man who stroked Mallow's ears and gave pathetically grateful smiles to people who made sure he didn't have to witness the killing or skinning or rabbits.
And suddenly, the two versions merge. The epiphany hits so hard Arthur sways a little on the log.
Merlin had stayed, had dragged the two men from Death's doorway, had halted the arrows and slaughtered, for the same reasons Arthur had slain so many. He'd done it to keep his men alive. Arthur blinks, and stares at the rounded shoulders, the waifish frame, the tousled, hapless dark hair. Merlin had risked his life, risked the pyre, the hangman, the executioner, to keep Arthur and the others alive. And now he sits, at the fire, cooking their meal, instead of disappearing before he can face the repercussions.
Perhaps Merlin doesn't believe Arthur will have him executed, after all. Hope blisters at the possibility.
"Sire?"
Arthur shakes away the his distraction to find Merlin eyeing him warily. Almost as if he can hear the noise in Arthur's head. At least he doesn't need to worry about that, hopefully. He'd learned long ago, with great chagrin, that Magic didn't just give a man a window into the minds of others. He drags up a neutral expression, and lifts an eyebrow.
"Hm?"
Merlin watches him, his eyes dark and unreadable, his lips a pale, thin line of thought. Caution, ill-fitting on his face. Arthur almost wants to laugh. The moment stretches for a long moment before Merlin clears his throat, and lowers his eyes to Arthur's shoulder instead.
"Should I tend your wound, my lord?"
Arthur can feel the confusion on his face.
"My wound?" he repeats stupidly, and Merlin's face falls into an automatic sort of smile, for just a second.
"Your arm, my lord. You're bleeding."
And indeed he is, through the thin strip of cloth he's wound around his arm, just below the crease of his elbow.
"It's nothing." he answers automatically, half-expecting Merlin's usual huff of amused exasperation, his playful reprimand, as he tends him anyway.
But this time, Merlin merely looks up at him uncertainly, and then turns away to tend the stew again.
"As you wish, Sire."
And Arthur knows he cannot put off their conversation much longer. Because Merlin is already building a shell, weaving himself the armour of a well-behaved and submissive servant as though to soothe and avoid the King's ire, and that's not what Arthur wants. Hasn't, for a very long time. Probably longer still, than he realizes.
"You and I have to talk later." he says, trying his best to take the edge off of the command.
When Merlin looks up, he nods and answers in the appropriate manner. But his eyes are frightened, his face incredibly pale, and Arthur wishes he could fix that.
~•~
Dinner is a calm affair, the exertion of the day hitting everyone all at once as they sit in a companionable quiet circled around the fire to keep the inevitable cool of a Spring evening at bay. There's little talk, though what little there is is warm, friendly. Arthur thinks again on the bonds they share, and now that he's finally looking for them, he can see them clearly. Brothers in arms, of course, as anyone would expect from a group of men who train, work, travel, fight and eat together. But he never saw this depth of comradery among his father's Knights. Certainly not between his father and his Knights, at any rate. Perhaps it's weak-minded of him, at least in Uther's eye, but Arthur is proud of what they've built. No blood shared, bar that shed in battle, but family just the same.
And Merlin, with no training, no station, no title or Knighting, is quite clearly one of them.
Meal concluded, they are efficient with the aftermath. Elyan rinses their bowls with what's left of the water while Percival and Leon head off to fetch more for the morning. Lancelot sets out their bedrolls as well as his own, and is quickly shed of his armour and bedded. Gwaine watches Arthur with an unreadable look in his eye as the King leads Merlin off under the guise of needing to relieve himself. A weak excuse, but after facing an army, it's not unreasonable for him to command that no-one go anywhere alone.
Merlin trails behind Arthur, lighter footed than usual, as though he's doing his very best yet again to be small and unnoticeable. Arthur sighs, unsure even with the time he's had to prepare, that he won't muck this up. He stops a few minutes off, far enough for the privacy that this conversation will no doubt require. When he turns, he catches the flinch that his manservant tries to hide, and the uncertainty grows teeth.
For a moment, he searches for how to start. How on earth is he supposed to have this conversation, the topic of which has quite thrown his whole world on its head? What the hell is he supposed to say? He's confused, betrayed, and angry, yes. But hurt, more than any of it, that Merlin has never told him.
"Merlin," a safe starting point, he supposes, "what-"
"I'm sorry," the other man's voice is quiet, strained, and raw. "I'm so sorry."
He won't look at him, fingers twisted into the hem of his tunic, head bowed. Arthur's voice leaves him.
"I wanted to tell you. I've always wanted to- to tell you. But..."
"You thought I'd have you killed."
It's not a question. The law is the law, and it has been since Arthur was barely a year old. A stellar observation, Arthur chides himself.
"I... hoped you wouldn't. But. It would be your duty."
Arthur's temper suddenly flares at the slight, at the assumption that he'd have Merlin, of all people, Merlin, killed.
"When my father was alive, if he knew, maybe!" he snaps viciously, fists clenching, "But you could have told me!"
Merlin shrinks smaller, and shakes his head slowly. He doesn't speak, and somehow that only makes Arthur angrier.
"Have I not earned at least that? To be trusted? I am not my father! I haven't been anything like my father in years! I thought you'd at least see that, I thought- I thought..."
And as quickly as it came, the anger leaves him. Burning his insides in its wake. He is horrified to realise his eyes burn too, and he aches all over with the sheer fatigue of everything.
"I thought," he starts again, forcing strength into his now wavering voice, "that you and I. Well. That we were friends."
It's horrible, to bare that truth. It's an ugly, vulnerable feeling to say things like that, and although he's gotten better at trusting others with his fears, there are some things that just... Are too big to name.
"We are friends, Arthur." Merlin sighs sadly, finally raising watery, beseeching eyes, "and that's why I haven't been able to tell you."
Maybe it's the exhaustion. Maybe it's the hollow rush the fight for their lives has left behind, maybe it's just the fear that if he says the wrong thing, he'll break this bond irreparably. Whatever the reason, Arthur swallows back everything else he wants to say, and instead meets Merlin's forlorn gaze with his own misery.
"I don't understand. I've always believed you to be my- my closest friend."
It's stripping him raw inside to say it out loud, but a very insistent voice in his head is telling him this is the only way to save what they have.
"I thought we trusted each other."
Merlin, apparently not quite so afraid of baring his heart, swallows back a choked-off sob. It's awful, but it eases the fear in Arthur to hear it, to see the welling of his eyes, unshed tears lying heavy on his dark lashes.
"I couldn't put you in that position." he whispers, so quietly one could imagine he'd said nothing at all, "Forcing you to choose between- between your duty and- and-" his voice strangles, his gaze dropping with shame as his face explodes in red, "and me."
The silence that falls is profound. A blanket, winter-thick, blocking out the rest of the forest as he stares, stunned, at Merlin's tousled, down-turned head.
"That's what worried you?"
Merlin shrugs, dragging one rough sleeve over his face in a jittery, furtive motion.
"It wouldn't be fair."
And it's the fractured pain in his voice that does it. Merlin has kept this monumental secret, and he should still be angry damn it, should be furious. Magic! In his own servant! Behind his back all this time. Maybe he'll be angry again later. When this whole bloody mission is done and he's home again, back in the familiar safety of his own chambers. But the sound cuts. The sight of Merlin, stronger than he looks, brave as any Knight, loyal to a fault Merlin, fighting the first shakes of tears, cutes ever deeper. Kingly image and reputation be damned, the best man he's ever known is hurting.
Arthur surges forward and hauls Merlin into what is definitely not a hug.
Merlin peeps as he's tugged off-balance, his face crushing into Arthur's shoulder. It's comical, and Arthur cannot stop the breathy laugh that forces from his throat at the sound.
Powerful sorcerer, slayer of men, peeping like a startled cat.
Merlin makes a darkly insulted sound next, muffled and losing its impact, squashed as he is. But his arms lift, hesitant as they settle into place at Arthur's back.
"Idiot." he scolds, not quite as gruff as he wants.
"Prat." Merlin grouches, but it's muffled and without impact, squashed as he is.
With no other words that feel appropriate Arthur wisely keeps his mouth shut. Merlin's fingertips dig into his shirt. After a moment, Merlin makes another, muffled, sharp little sound. Arthur pulls back, but Merlin gives him one last, hard squeeze before letting him pull away. He ducks his head, dragging one rough sleeve furtively across his face. Arthur thinks sagely that now is not the time to call him a girl's blouse, as he usually would.
Things are currently not as they usually are. And he has grown, matured, over the years. He can bite his tongue this one time.
Arthur thinks of all the things he hasn't said, all the words he's never had the courage to voice, and now the danger is passed once more, perhaps he'll never say them.
Merlin shoots him a look, embarrassed, wary, but - Arthur hopes - fond. He looks back at him, his mouth dry, his words hiding back down behind the lump in his throat. Merlin's gaze drops shyly to somewhere near Arthur's elbow, and then his lips almost lift at the edges as he grabs the King's arm. He sounds almost like his usual self when he speaks.
"That's going to get infected. You really should let me look at it, I've some of Gaius's special salve in my pack. I knew you'd need it for something stupid."
Arthur eyes the bloodied strip of cotton, and his mouth moves without permission.
"What, Magic for them, but not for me?"
Merlin's head shoots up, and he gives him the look of a deer that's just sensed a hunter nearby. It's an endless, horrible second. And then his gaze and his hand both drop, and along with them is Arthur's stomach. Heavy dread rises. His wrist twitches as though to seek to restore the connection, but he doesn't know whether that's the right thing to do.
Maybe he really is a prat.
He doesn't move. He simply hopes. And then slowly, Merlin looks up at him. His eyes sweep between Arthur's, unreadable, maybe speculative. And then he sets his mouth in a grim line and offers his hand, palm up, in the space between them, and he waits.
Arthur swallows. His heart is pounding in his chest, blood rushing loud in his ears even as a quiet seems to fall upon them. Arthur knows this is it, his moment to fix things. To prove who he is. He could make promises, he could swear on everything he holds dear, but this is the only way he'll truly prove he means what he says.
He lowers his forearm into Merlin's waiting palm. A shiver runs through him as long fingers curl around muscle. Merlin is watching him, his dark eyes trained on his face, and then he brings his other hand to hover over Arthur's arm, fingertips grazing the knotted cloth.
Arthur daren't breathe. A new light begins to flicker in Merlin's eyes, hope, it looks like, new respect. Arthur sets his jaw. And this time, Merlin mouth does twitch with the ghost of a smile.
His lips part, his voice murmuring words Arthurs never heard, but knows must be of the Old Religion. The blue irises before him melt into warm gold. Not the blinding, white gold of the slaughter. But warm, soft, like candlelight in winter. Arthur's breath is uneven, blood surging through his limbs, but he keeps his gaze in Merlin's.
In the periphery of his view, Arthur can see the opaque blue glow of the spell between their skin. As Merlin stops murmuring, his eyes bleed black to almost navy, and the spells seeps into Arthur's skin. It tingles pleasantly, sinking down into his blood, wrapping around his arm in a comfortable warmth.
When Merlin steps back, pink streaking up his high cheekbones, Arthur's gaze finally drops to his arm. He has to see. His fingers fumble at the knot, rubbery and uncoordinated, but Merlin makes no love to help him.
When the knot finally falls open, he unwinds the strip of fabric and is greeted by his own unblemished skin. No scarring. No trace at all. Nothing to evidence a bandit's lucky strike.
"There isn't even any blood." he says stupidly, and in response, Merlin's face flushes properly as he ducks his head, red chasing up his ears and down under his neckerchief.
"My Magic, uhm, got a bit carried away. Cleaned you."
Arthur's breathe catches. All those unspoken words flood his head and he aches all over. Merlin calls it "carried away", as if his power made the decision all by itself to scrub any lingering trace of his faltering away. Like it never even happened. The same power that set a man alight under the command of nothing but the flick of his fingers. This wasn't the same Magic that had done those things, or it was, but it had done more than slaughter. It had stolen Leon and Gwaine from Death's doorway, sent arrows away from his friends. And here, now, it was... Gentle. Safe.
And it had cleaned his skin unintentionally, leaving him able to deny he was even struck. Merlin is still babbling, and Arthur only catches some of it. His mind is in disarray as he thinks about how much he still has to learn about Magic.
"- a bit, well, overboard when it's people I- well when I think I'm losing- well like Leon and Gwaine, that is that I- when it's family, well not my real family, but- such as it is, I-"
Arthur's hands disobey his discombobulation, and haul Merlin back towards him. Their mouths crash together, and Arthur swallows down the fractured, wounded sound Merlin makes. He presses firmly against him, sliding his mouth over Merlin's with purpose. Only, Merlin has gone still, tense under hands. Panic bubbles up. He's done it now, without warning, and just when he thought he'd fixed things and-
And Merlin's mouth is meeting his challenge, volleying it back and nipping at Arthur's bottom lip. His hands slide up to clench at Arthur's shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. In response, Arthur hauls him even closer, using the height advantage the angle gives him to press deeper into Merlin's mouth. He earns another broken, achy noise, and Merlin's arms rise up to wind around Arthur's neck and pull their chests even closer. Arthur spreads his palms across his slender lower back, and Merlin steps impossibly closer. They continue like that for a handful of thoughtless, wordless minutes, until Arthur can no longer delay pulling back.
He's panting heavily, as though he's just chased an escaping attacker through the forest, but Merlin is heaving great gasps of air and his eyes look unfocused and dazed, so Arthur takes comfort in not being the only one affected.
Merlin blinks, slowly shaking off the glassy expression, and he looks more like the Merlin Arthur knows than he has since morning.
"You kissed me." he says stupidly.
Arthur snorts, and drags the haughtiest expression he can muster onto his face.
"Waited long enough," he says, trying and failing to sound authoritative, "have to do everything myself, as usual."
Merlin blinks at him, his expression flittering though several emotions, as though he can't decide whether to be amused or offended. He finally settles on contemplative, shy.
"You've never let on. Never even... Not once, that I can recall."
Arthur's eyebrows raise and Merlin's face floods with colour as he ducks his head again. But this time, the smile is evident. Radiant, even, as he tries to bite it down. Arthur can't help but smile with him.
"That makes two of us." he offers gently, and he's not talking about the Magic.
Merlin shoots him a fond, soft-eyed sort of look from under his lashes, and it's Arthur's turn to redden. Merlin's grin grows cheeky, his eyes twinkle, and it's so familiar, so relieving, that Arthur doesn't even care what comes out of his mouth next.
"Why, my lord, it seems you've gone pink."
The tease is playful, and wonderful, and only a little tentative. Arthur shakes his head and lets him go, swatting at him, but Merlin's laugh is joyful, comfortable like a familiar embrace.
"Shut it." he attempts, but Merlin's eyes just glitter merrily for a moment as they simply smile at each other.
And then, of course, the moment sobers.
"Am I..." Merlin starts, avoiding Arthur's eye and hunching his shoulders in a way that makes Arthur think he doesn't even notice he's doing it.
"No."
Merlin raises an eyebrow, and half-playfully asks;
"I'm not forgiven?"
Arthur glares at him. He knows that's not what was going to be asked. God's knows how he knows.
And there, Merlin's lip is curling. And Arthur shoves him hard. Well, apparently not very hard at all, for Merlin only sways like one of those gormless bottom-heavy fairground games full of straw.
"You're forgiven." he says magnanimously, in case Merlin needs to hear the words.
He's rewarded with a dazzling smile, one that makes his heart thump hard.
"Come on." he grouses, clearing his throat, "We'd better get back before Gwaine comes hunting me to see if I've beheaded you."
He follows Merlin's laugh back through the trees to their campsite, thinking all the while that yes, in fact, these men are his family. Merlin's just... A little bit more.