for @merthurmicrofic | Prompt: Exile | Word Count: 585
The first snow Merlin saw in exile fell soundlessly.
He woke to white gathered along the mouth of the cave and for one impossible moment, half-asleep and cold, he thought he was back in Camelot. Thought he would hear Arthur shouting for him to stop staring out windows and fetch hot water already.
Instead there was only the wind.
Merlin sat up slowly beneath his threadbare blanket. Every joint ached. The fire had gone out sometime in the night, leaving behind ash and the faint smell of smoke soaked into stone.
Three months since he had left Camelot before dawn with nothing but a pack over his shoulder and magic trembling violently beneath his skin.
He pulled his scarf tighter and stepped outside.
The mountains stretched endlessly around him, pale with snow and morning frost. His breath fogged the air. Far below, a small village still slept beneath curling chimney smoke. No one here knew who he was. To them he was simply Emrys, the strange physician who lived too far into the woods and spoke to no one unless necessary.
Even now, even after years, he could still remember that final night with perfect clarity.
Arthur had been drunk on celebration wine after his birthday. The castle had glowed gold with music and laughter.
Merlin had been trying to leave unnoticed when Arthur caught him alone in the corridor.
âYouâre avoiding me,â Arthur had accused.
Merlin forced a grin. âHardly. Iâve been serving at your birthday all day.â
Arthur leaned against the wall, crown crooked slightly from drink. âYouâve been strange for weeks.â
Weeks. As if Merlin had not spent years breaking himself apart quietly at Arthurâs feet.
âYou should sleep,â Merlin had said softly.
Arthur had looked at him then.
And suddenly all the warmth drained from Merlinâs body because Arthurâs expression had gone unbearably tender.
âYouâre unhappy,â Arthur said.
Then Arthur had reached for him.
Just a hand against his wrist.
Except Merlin reacted like a starving man given bread.
Magic sparked instinctively beneath his skin. Gold flickered in his eyes. Arthurâs breath caught. And before Merlin could think better of it, before he could stop himself, he had kissed him.
One desperate terrible heartbeat.
Arthur had kissed him back.
Merlin remembered the feeling with horrifying precision even now â Arthurâs hand at the back of his neck, the sharp inhale against his mouth, the way years of restraint shattered all at once.
Then Arthur jerked away as if burned. The silence afterward had nearly killed him. Arthur looked stunned. Guilty.
Merlin had never hated anyone more than he hated himself in that moment.
âArthur,â he whispered.
A gust of icy wind snapped Merlin back to the present.
He should stop remembering. It served no purpose now.
Camelot was protected. Merlin made certain of that before he left. The spell surrounding the kingdom was woven from old magic older than kingdoms themselves. No Saxon army would breach it. No sorcerer could curse the land while Merlin still breathed.
Snow crunched beneath his boots as he stood at the edge of the mountain path. The cold bit through wool and leather alike, but he welcomed it. It was easier to focus on the sting in his fingers than on the ache that never seemed to leave.
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