merthur microfic

...it is winter, the next time.

for @merthurmicrofic prompt "stars" - M - 500 words - no warnings

For @merthurmicrofic Pain + @merlinbingo Camelot's Golden Age

So it is ME/CFS awareness month, and I have ME/CFS from COVID ME/CFS stands for Myalgic Encephalomyelitis/Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. It is a neuroimmune chronic illness that causes a wide aray of symptomes but the hallmark symptome is Post-Extertional Malaise which basically means doing anything from small daily tasks like washing your hair, to working on homework, to even writing this fanfic causes extreme exhuastion/pain/maliase. ANyone can be affected by it and the main cause of it as of right now is still COVID-19. Yes, even if you're vaccinated, I got it in 2024, and it has changed my life forever, and less then 10% of pateints recover. Now I decided I would write this little microfic to spread some awareness because like I said anyone can become disabled by it at any time.

This story is minimally edited because, that is often the thing that feels the most difficult for me as a disabled person, so I said fuck it here y'all go!

Now on with the story.

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Merlin hated getting sick.

Laying in bed the last near two weeks from a terrible illness that had been making it's way through the kingdom had been awful.

Being useless and unable to care for himself having to rely on others for the most basic things as he lay limp in his and Arthur's bed.

But finally he had taken a turn for the better a couple days ago and had been steadily recovering since then.

He put his book down as Arthur returned to their chambers with a smile on his face.

"Hello Fy cariad how are you feeling?" asked his king warmly as he reached down and kissed him on the forehead softly

"I'm okay, I'm feeling a lot better then I have been, honestly!" he said with a small smile.

"I know, it's just Merlin… Watching you suffer as you battled that illness an illness you got because you were helping to care for those effected by this epidemic in our Kingdom… It was so terribly hard, I hated seeing you suffer," said Arthur gently stroking his face.

"I know but it takes more then an illness to take me out," he said with a grin.

It takes more then an illness to take me out, Merlin would repeat those words everyday as more time passed from the illness that destroyed so many lives, because as the weeks past it seemed as if Merlin was eating those words.

He felt himself getting weaker so much faster, his muscles and joints ached with pain that he should only be feeling at an age far older then he is.

Even his magic was slower, harder to control almost as if he were a young boy again, afraid and unable to control his powers, and not the court sorcerer of a great kingdom.

He got winded climbing the stairs, in the castle, and the exhaustion, it was unlike anything he'd ever felt before.

But the worst part of all was the pity and concern in people's eyes. The constant questions, what's wrong? are you alright? do you need to sit down?

He wasn't just some unnoticed servant anymore either, times had changed, magic had been returned to the land of Camelot, they had entered a Golden age under the great leadership of his beloved king.

Yet, he felt himself slowing down, his body struggling to do simple tasks, his mind muddled with confusion over what he was doing, and why.

He hated it. Oh By the Gods he hated it.

He hated how weak he felt, but most of all…

He loathed how terrified he felt.

Because if he didn't have his magic, his strength, his power then what good was he? It was his destiny to protect and serve Arthur, yet he couldn't even care for himself properly and everyone was taking notice.

He feared the day that Arthur would sit him down, and tell him that he no longer had a need for him, that he was dismissed from his duties, that he no longer loved Merlin…

He couldn't let that day come, no he had to keep going, he had to protect his king and their kingdom.

But all good things would come to an end eventually, and Merlin could only keep this charade up for so long…

So a month after his illness, and the horrid after affects, that day finally came.

Merlin was out in the woods, by the palace, he had gone to harvest a rare magical flower that only bloomed at the height of summer for a few days, with a few knights, because Arthur hated for him to go out alone.

They were only a short walk from home, it should've been entirely doable, but as he finally approached the flower bed, he felt a dizziness fall over him as his vision blacked out, and then his memory failed him.

It was so dark, what was going on, and who was making that yelling sound, his head hurt could they keep it down?

"Merlin! merlin!" echoed a voice gently shaking his shoulders.

His vision blurry as it returned and he saw Lancelot leaning over him along with the other knights, except for Leon.

"It's alright, it's fine I'm fine, it's okay," he slurred rapidly his mind not fully returned to his body.

"Don't get up, just breath okay, we're here, Leon has run back to the castle to inform Arthur, we're going to get you back and get you some help," said Lancelot, holding his wrist checking his pulse.

"I-I'm fine! it's fine please I don't need any help!" he said his anxiety rising, he tried to push Lance away and get up, but he instead fell to the side and threw up.

"Merlin don't get up just stay there, it's alright, stay calm, we've got you," said Lance, rubbing his back gently.

"Just take a breath Merls, you're going to be just fine, we've got you, so just breath with me," said Gwaine warmly, as he finished hacking.

"Here have some water," said ELyan holding a water skin to his mouth helping him carefully drink some.

"Can I pick you up Merlin? To get you back to yours and Arthur's chambers?" asked Percival, and shame filled Merlin's face, he hated it, he wanted this all to just go away, but with a small tear he nodded lightly allowing the gentle giant to hoist him into his arms.

The journey back to his and Arthur's rooms was a blur, his mind swimming in the pain and misery of his existence.

He barely noticed when he was placed down on Arthur and his bed, his love looking at him worriedly as Gaius sat and began to do some tests, and ask a million questions, some he answered but many he asked everyone else.

The knights, Gwen, Morgana and Arthur all answering what they'd noticed and seen, he felt terribly embarrassed and exhausted once more, when the questions stopped and Gaius began to speak.

"I've only ever heard of a few cases, but I believe I know what it is. It doesn't have a proper name, but it is colloquially known as Chronic Fatigue syndrome amongst physicians," said the elderly healer sitting by his bedside.

"There's gotta be a cure? Please Gaius I- I can't be like this forever," he sobbed, and he felt Arthur wrap him in a tight hug.

"My dear boy, I'm afraid I can't say there is, it's such a rare illness, no one reason for it's arrival but for you, I believe it was that illness you got. But there are measures that can be taken, rest, proper pacing, care from your family and friends. I know it is intimidating but you have people who love you and we all want you to be well and cared for regardless of your illness," said Gaius, and Merlin burst into full tears.

"Merlin, I know, it's scary, it's awful, but you heard Gaius, we will take care of you, there's tonics for pain, and you will have access to the best treatments, I will insure it my love," said his King kissing his head.

"We'll all help you my friend," said Gwen warmly, cheers of yes, and of course echoing through the room.

"But, but if I can't protect you all, if I can't use my magic what good am I?" Merlin yelled pushing Arthur away.

"OH Merlin, my merlin, is that truly what you think of yourself? That without your power and strength you're worth nothing, my darling, no, that couldn't be the furthest thing from the truth,"

"Merlin, you truly are a fool, do you really think any of us care if you can't be the way you used to? If you can't use your magic?" asked Gwaine.

"Besides, although I may not be as powerful as you, I am a sorcerer too, I can even help you with your magic, as you did for me those years ago under Uther,"

"Yes, let us return the favour! You cared for us!" said Lancelot.

"Now, it's our turn my love," said Arthur stroking his face lovingly.

Merlin, looked at his friends, his family, and for once he realized just how much he was loved.

Not for his magic, not for his power, nor his ability to juggle a thousand tasks at once, but for who he truly was.

For being their Merlin.

"You've been strong for long enough fy cariad, let us take care of you now," Arthur said gently wiping the tear from his face.

"Even if I never get better? If you have to care for me for the rest of my life…?"

"Even then," said Gwen kindly.

"Nothing would make me happier, so long as I have you by my side I will gladly care for you for the rest of my days, I would be honoured if you trusted me with that privileged,"

It didn't fix everything right then and there, he was still afraid, and sorrowful, but knowing that he was going to be loved and cared for regardless soothed the greatest of his fears.

this is a kind of continuance of my micro fic for pain, this time from Merlin’s POV.

~

It has come to this, then.

“The punishment for sorcery is death, Merlin. You knew this and still chose to use magic. Correct?”

Merlin realises all at once that there’s no point in fighting. He knows this man, this King, knows that once his mind is made up it cannot be unmade.

Merlin breathes in. Breathes out.

Then he lets it all go.

“I was born with magic and it is my destiny to use it for you. To protect you. I have made that choice a thousand times, and I would choose it again right now if it meant you would not be harmed. I would rather die having chosen to break the law than live without you, having chosen not to. Everything I have done, everything I am, is for you, Arthur.”

“Enough!” Arthur bellows. Using his name was too much, Merlin understands, belatedly. Invoking, even accidentally, the truth that is their bond, their friendship — that is what does it.

Merlin had always felt that when it came down to it, everything would work out. Arthur would understand him, respect him, even, for the extent of his bravery and his loyalty. He would apologise, and Arthur would be hurt, would need a while to cool down, need longer again to trust him properly, but he truly believed that Arthur would understand eventually.

That he would be forgiven, and destiny would unfold, perfect and shining and just.

He has never heard Arthur sound like this, though. Oscillating between cold numbness and burning rage. To realise here, in this moment, that there is a part of Arthur he does not know, did not expect, is terrifying.

Merlin watches his destiny blink out of existence like a dying star.

“How willingly you admit the scale of your treachery,” Arthur drawls, emotions guarded once more. That, at least, is familiar. “By all rights, I should cut you down right here,” Arthur says, eyes fixed on some point just to the left of Merlin. The door, maybe. The guards behind it.

“Do what you must,” Merlin murmurs.

Arthur inhales shakily, his hand on the pommel of Excalibur. The sword Merlin forged for him in the breath of his kin. The sword that once rested in Avalon, guarded by a woman Merlin loved and who had died by Arthur’s hand. The sword they both know is capable of killing a creature of magic. Merlin swallows hysterical laughter.

Arthur looks at him, his eyes cold and hard as steel. Merlin waits.

“You are banished from Camelot.”

“Arthur,” Merlin gasps involuntarily. Exile. Not death. Not death.

“If I ever see you again, if you are ever within these borders, I will have no choice but to kill you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Merlin says. He will not protest, will not explain, will not beg. He is lucky to be alive, he knows this. He has seen hundreds burn for far less.

“You have one hour to gather your belongings, to say your goodbyes, any longer and I will send my knights after you.”

An hour is generous. Merlin will not need that long. He has had a bag packed for years.

“Leave,” Arthur orders, his back to Merlin once more. Merlin commits the image to memory. The way the cloak is draped over the tense line of Arthur’s shoulders. He takes in the richness of the red, red like blood, or wine, red like Arthur’s bed-linens. The stitching of the Pendragon crest, gold like the crown, like the hair the crown rests upon.

He knows everything the cloak conceals. Every piece of armour, the soft fabric beneath it, the scars on Arthur’s skin. The deeper scars, the ones that do not mark his flesh but have changed his heart. He knows them, too, can see them in this final moment, as he looks up at the too still, too guarded, too tired body of his King, his destiny.

Lady Emelyn checked their reflection in the glass, adjusting the lay of the thin gold chain around their neck, fingers brushing their collar bone nervously. Their long dark hair cascaded in wild curls over their shoulders, and the deep blue of their dress accentuated their pale skin and brought out the blue of their eyes. Lady Morgana had insisted that she paint Emelyn's eyelids with powder, and Emelyn's lips with red stain, and Emelyn had to admit that the effect was rather stunning. They were ready.

For @merthurmicrofic EXILE + @merlinbingo Merlin & Mordred

"Da!"

"Yes Mordred, I'm in here," Merlin said as he ground the herbs with his mortar and pestle.

"We have a visitor," said his son with a cheerful lilt to his voice.

"Can you take them to head to the healer's hut kiddo, and I'll be there in a minute," he replied as he finished up his latest batch of yarrow salve.

"I'm not injured, I've come for you," said a familiar voice and Merlin whipped his head around to see the familiar and welcome face of Lancelot.

"Lancelot! How did you?! Gods never mind get over here!" he yelled placing down the salve and hurrying over to embrace his friend, when he suddenly stopped in his tracks when he saw what Lancelot was wearing.

Armour and a red cloak.

A Camelot cloak.

"Mordred come here now," he stated firmly and Mordred hurried over beside him.

"Did you bring them here? Did you come to hurt us, because I can assure you I will not allow harm to come to these people nor my son."

"Merlin no, I would never hurt you or cause you harm, we've come to bring you home. They thought I'd be best to come see you first since we left on good terms," said the knight.

"Home? You mean Camelot, that's not- I do not have a home. How'd you end up a knight I thought you were banished?"

"Arthur came and found me, and a few others on the journey, you know I think you'd like them a lot. They're here with me just outside the camp, nobody is hurting anyone we just want to bring you home, well I suppose both of you, since… what's his name? He's yours?"

"Mordred! My name is Mordred!" he said excitedly.

"Yes Mordred is my adoptive son," he said warmly, glancing down at the kid that he'd grown to love so dearly.

"Don't you see Da! You can go home now! I knew the Once and Future King would come around eventually, he did save us after all," said Mordred tugging on his hand lightly.

"I don't understand though how did-"

"Uther is dead," Lancelot interrupted.

"What?"

"It's a long story but he was slain by a wraith and now Arthur is king, you have to see it Merlin nothing is the same. He's been looking for you for months, he misses you terribly, but when he heard back from the Camelot Druids telling them that Emrys was living in deep in the Northumbria woods, he sent us," explained the knight gently.

"Does he… Does he really want me back? How does he expect, with the magic ban?" Merlin said testing the waters.

"Lifted, it's been hard they argued apparently but it was one of the first things he did, he said he did it because he had learned that magic had saved him so many times, please will you just come home now? He can explain it all much better then I. The knights and I can escort you both home safely," said Lancelot, and Merlin sighed, his nerves fluttering in his chest.

Yet… All he really wanted was to go home and now that he had the chance…

He looked at his son, leaning down and asking, "Mordred do you-"

"Yes, Da, you gave up everything for me, I want you to go home," he said warmly and Merlin knelt down placing a gentle kiss on his forehead.

Merlin can feel destiny breathing down his neck, down all their necks. His skin is screaming with it—every muscle, tendon and fingernail tense. Everything is going wrong, and he is utterly powerless to stop it.

Arthur is quiet for a long moment, beside him, before he answers Mordred. "I wish I knew."

He turns from the cell.

Merlin follows.

He has to do something. He has to try and fix this, before—

But it's like trying to talk underwater, asking Arthur to listen. He can't hear Merlin, because for all this time he's been kept in the dark, and now Merlin's standing in front of him, choking to death on the panic, the dread that's settling like silt in his veins and slowly filling his lungs.

"Arthur—"

"It's my decision. Mine alone, Merlin." Arthur is troubled too, he can tell. Exhausted. Grieving, blind-sided by Mordred's betrayal. But he doesn't know. He doesn't know what Merlin knows, that this is the beginning of the end: that if Kara is executed, and Mordred turns against Arthur, his fate—their fate, together—is all but decided.

Blood pounds in his ears, hot and wild with fright. "Please."

"What would you have me do?" Arthur demands, whirling to face him, voice sharp with frustration, desperation. "I have to uphold the laws of Camelot!"

Merlin swallows. It's all rising up in him, a decade-long bile of secrets and sacrifices, and hope, and horror—

"Exile her. Exile them both."

"Merlin, I can't just—"

Something in Merlin snaps, or breaks loose, because he just—he can't fucking do this. He can't watch Arthur die. He can't. "Arthur. There's more, alright, there's so much more to this than you know. I can—I'll tell you about it. I'll tell you everything—"

Arthur's gaze locks on him, eyes wide, and he looks—frightened, or lost. Merlin is shaking.

"Please," he repeats, choking on it; realises suddenly he's crying. "Please, Arthur."

"Alright." It's a murmur, low in the dwindling space between them, as Arthur steps away from the window, towards him, hand hesitant but reaching. "Alright, tell me."

And Merlin does.

Merlin had imagined this scenario countless times before, but never like this. He had always thought that it would be him who would end up getting exiled – or, at the very least, Gwaine – but not Arthur. Never Arthur.

It was all one, big misunderstanding, and Merlin’s skin itched with the need to right it. And oh, how it pained him that he could not do so. He longed to, yes, but he was deathly afraid that any action he might take would only aggravate the situation at hand. And besides, he had never meant for Arthur to find out this way.

Arthur knelt before his father, head lowered, hands clasped, as if in prayer to some merciless god. Uther towered over him, right hand clenching the pommel of his sword, face contorted with barely concealed anger. “Gaius told me that the beast could only be killed with magic,” Uther spat. “And yet here you kneel before me, claiming to have slain it.”

“Father, please,” Arthur stammered. “I swear, we killed it with our swords–”

“Silence!” Merlin flinched as the king’s voice echoed across the almost empty throne room. It would have been an intimate tableau – father and son, attended only by the crown’s most loyal manservant – were it not for Uther’s drawn sword, and the rope tight around Merlin’s neck. Uther was not blind, and he had long since noticed his son’s affection for his manservant. He had brought Merlin along now to ensure Arthur’s cooperation with whatever sick judgement he pronounced. As far as Uther – and, for that matter, Arthur, too – was aware, one sharp tug could end Merlin’s life.

“I have noticed a pattern with you,” Uther continued. “Every time Gaius tells me a foe can only be defeated with sorcery, you seem to vanquish it with ease. To think all this time, my very own son was hiding magic from me.” He spat out the words with such hatred that Arthur visibly recoiled.

His head was pounding. He could feel lines of blood running down to his eyes. Breathing felt impossible. Every movement threatens to collapse him.

He was being pulled through a castle. Golden shackles and chains made sure he would behave.

Not that he could do anything with the way his body ached.

Everything was a blur. A true strategist would take this moment to learn the layouts. Look for an opportunity for later at least.

But Arthur was too broken to be a prince now.

They finally arrived at a wide hall. Arthur finally felt stable enough to make out where he was. Handwoven rugs with dense floral patterns and deep jewel tones covered the floors.

Floor to ceiling windows on both sides let the light flow in, a gentle breeze had the navy-blue curtains gently moving.

“Your highness.”  

The guards bowed before they shoved Arthur to his knees. “Kneel before your prince, lord Emrys of Elador.”

Emrys was dressed in navy blues head to toe. Gold jewelry adorned his sharp features well. On his dark curly hair sat a golden chain circlet that shone under the light coming from the windows. Multiple rings sat on his long fingers. Arthur swore the dust of freckles on Emrys’s temples were also shining in gold. His beauty sharp enough to wound.

The prince, however, didn’t seem to acknowledge them. Or simply care enough. He was lounging on his throne with one knee resting over the other. One hand under his jaw as the other had a floating grimoire. The book shone and had symbols floating above its pages. Arthur assumed they were the symbols of the Old religion.

The one thing his father warned him the most about. And the thing that destroyed his kingdom and left him in shackles.

“Your highness, king Mordred has sent us his greatest slave and prisoner as a token of gratitude for your help in the war. Kneeling in front of you is the exiled Prince of Camelot, Arthur Pendragon.

“He was never a prince.” Figure on the throne didn’t look up from the grimoire. “Born of magic only to betray it. This slave is a disgrace to my land of magic.” The snap of the closing grimoire had Arthur startled and then, he was met with an intense gaze of blue.

“Your highness, we understand your resentment. However, the regent requested to keep the prize as a form of peace and alliance between the new ruler of Camelot and Eldor.

“Uncle Gaius is too soft.” The prince tilted his head; a dangerous smirk appeared on his lips. “king Mordred is wise enough not to backstab the warlock of magic.”

A dagger flew right to Arthur’s face but stood still inches away from him. He forced everything in him to not startle. preserving his last scraps of dignity and glaring up at Emrys.

“you can’t even use your weapon properly. Without your magic, even the sharpest swords won’t save you.” Arthur took satisfaction in Emrys’s smirk disappearing. Emrys waved his hand and the chains snapped apart. Arthur was surprised to find the dagger fly into his freed hands. He still had the shackles on, but this was enough freedom for him to slit Emrys’s throat open.

“Then let’s watch your arrogance shatter, shall we?"

Arthur knows how to use the stars to navigate. It was taught to him at a young age; originally meant for boat navigation, his teacher explained that he could use them even in the depths of the forest. All he had to do was find an open spot in the canopy. He knows how to use them to make his way back home.

So it wasn't hard to believe the travelling minstrel who told him that some destinies were written in the stars. It had been on his eighth birthday, memorable because his father had bothered to attempt a celebration - hence the minstrel. Arthur hadn't understood what "written in the stars" meant at the time; most of the story had gone over his head. The phrase, though, stuck with him. If stars could be read for guidance on a dark night then it would make sense they could be read in other ways. He believed that if he stared at them enough, learned to understand them properly, perhaps he could gain some insight into his own destiny. Learn what he's meant to do.

Staring at the stars became a guilty habit, something he turns to when his father is disappointed in him (often) or when he feels like a failure (even more often). Though he grew out of the childish belief in destiny, there is still a part of him that wants the comfort of knowing his purpose. Nearly every clear night, he can be caught leaning out some window or over a balustrade, staring at the sky, hoping the stars will do more than just shine for once.

Merlin isn’t sure how long he stands there, shin-deep in the water.

The last flickers of fire have long since gone out. The stinging stench of a burning body has faded, lost in the wind. There’s no sign that anything happened here, even though Merlin’s face is still damp, and each breath only jostles the sharp edges of what remains of his heart.

It’s almost as though Arthur never existed.

A fresh wave of grief threatens to pull Merlin under. He almost lets it. After all, if he had been faster– if he had done more, been the figure that destiny demanded– Arthur might still be alive. Merlin is the one who failed– it should be him, sunk beneath the surface of the lake.

There is still air in his lungs, though, wretched and wrong, and deep in his bones, he knows that Arthur has gone somewhere he cannot follow. Despite the visceral urge to wade into the lake’s depths and try anyway, Merlin also knows: he cannot stay here.

His heart is in his throat as he backs out of the water, not quite able to bring himself to care about his sodden boots. He needs to go– but where?

Camelot is Merlin’s first thought. Home. He isn’t the only person who has lost Arthur. Gaius has cared for Arthur since he was a child; the knights regarded him as a brother; Gwen has lost a husband— gods, Gwen, the only person who will understand the searing ache that’s embedded itself in Merlin’s chest because she loves loved him, too. They are all grieving, and Merlin should be there, to help pick up the broken pieces, because it’s all his fault. He should be there, so that they don’t grieve him, too.

But that means returning to a Camelot without Arthur— something Merlin has never known, and something he doesn’t know if he can bear. Every memory of the citadel is tinged with Arthur’s pursed lips and exasperated drawl of Merlin; the lower town is steeped in Arthur’s haughty smirk and the twirl of his mace; the woods are home to Arthur’s head thrown back in a carefree laugh at whatever Merlin has just said. What is Camelot without that? How is Merlin meant to walk through the city gates alone and wander the halls of the castle knowing that they will not echo with Arthur’s shouting, or stand before the throne in the great hall and see it devoid of its king?

How is he meant to bear the grief of his friends, knowing that he caused it?

Something squeezes in his chest, and he closes his eyes against the pain. Arthur is not the only thing that he has lost today. Merlin has lost the rest of his friends and family as well. He can never go home.

They had been riding for 5 hours in silence. 5 hours since Arthur had been exiled, and Merlin had followed him without a word.

5 hours since Merlin had stopped a dagger with magic in front of the court. 5 hours since Uther had ordered Merlin's execution. 5 hours since Arthur had taken the blame instead.

5 hours since Arthur had claimed he had been the one to make the dagger freeze in mid-air.

5 hours since Arthur claimed he'd been practicing magic.

And now they were here.

Exile – Season 12, Episode 15 – Finale

“Welcome, everyone, to the final episode of season 12 of Exile. And what a season it was: from seeing inevitable champions fall to unlikely heroes rise, this has been a journey none of us will soon forget.”

Merlin bounced his leg, sheathed tighter than he’d prefer in his suit trousers, and tried not to roll his eyes at Kil’s dramatics. Of course the producers sat him right behind that little asshole, Mordred. The fact that he was sitting here at all instead of in a cell somewhere made Merlin wish they were back on that stupid goddamned island, somewhere the cameras weren’t looking.

“Typically, our first questions go to the season’s victor—and what a victory it was.” Kil gestured to Gwen, across the semicircle of contestants from Merlin and looking radiant in a light blue dress, sweetheart neckline, her curly hair loose and free around her sweet face. Not to mention the sparkling engagement ring newly adorning her finger.

Kil went on, “But, given the circumstances, I think it might be best to start with the breaking news. All right with everyone?”

“Please, Kil, go ahead. I understand completely,” said Gwen.

“Thank you. Arthur,” Kil said his name warmly, like everyone didn’t know he was a cold-blooded reptile beneath that television-ready white-toothed grin. “Truly, we’re all so glad to see you here in good health.”

In the little hut in the middle of the secluded wood, Merlin forwent sleep, peace, and sanity in favour of working by the guttering candlelight to save his dying friend.

There was a hole in him, where there ought not to be one; and so his friend, who was Arthur, lay sweating and bleeding in his bed, where usually there was only Merlin, or some incidental crumbs.

Merlin could handle the exhaustion of a sleepless night, and he’d long ago learned to quiet the anxious ruminations he’d suffered working over the ailing and the crippled as a young physician in training; yet even as he took deep and fortifying breaths, he could not quell the trembling in his fingers as he drew the needle meticulously back and forth through Arthur’s skin.

It was too reminiscent of that night nine years ago, when Arthur had lain just as he did now, clammy and ashen-faced, upon the field of Camlann, with the wound from Mordred’s sword in his side.

With the sutures pulled into a neat row, Merlin sat back and mopped Arthur’s sweating brow. He felt for Arthur’s pulse in his neck, and felt it beating there, slow and steady, for a long time against his fingers. The dwale had taken hold of him, and he slept almost peacefully, as if he were merely resting, and hadn’t almost bled to death all over Merlin’s bedclothes.

~~~~

The sun had just crested over the browning elm, its light shining on their half-naked and shivering limbs, by the time Arthur woke. Merlin was rising from stirring the stew over the hearth when he noticed the eyes on him. He froze, and the stare that passed between them could not have been broken by holy flood nor hellfire.

“Merlin?” Arthur rasped. He made to sit up and grimaced, clutching his side.

“Don’t move,” Merlin said, bustling over to him. “You’ll pull your stitches.” With a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, he helped guide him back down; then he stood back.

Merlin had long grown used to the quiet: the days filled with nothing but the sounds in the trees and his own absentminded humming, but now, with the familiar eyes looking up at him, the silence was oppressive, and he felt the urgent need to fill it.