Wryter501: Thank you so much, I hope you like this more edited version! :D
Long icicles hung from the cave entrance, drips of cold water rolling down its rigid edges, dripping onto the snowy floor beneath. Wind moaned like an injured creature, snow lightly twirled in the dark sky. The only other sound, a wretched gasping, noisy, wheezing intakes of air, then whistling exhales, over and over again.
Pain. Like hands reaching inside of his stomach, pulling the flesh and skin apart and replacing his entrails with various stuffing and dressings, like he were a banquet turkey. His blue eyes were slits, staring at the blurry version of a cave roof. It should have been freezing, he knew, partially from the blizzard raging outside, partially from the puffs of white steam he wheezed out, and another part from Arthur's frame, raked with shudders as he desperately fiddled with a poor excuse for a fire. A tiny spark lit up, and the shaky, whispering voice of the king, repeating 'come on'.
Merlin opened his mouth to say something, some teasing, light mockery, it only came out as another gasp. The arrow protruding from him rose up and down with each breath, the bloodied, already red cape haphazardly wrapped around it was starting to be covered in a light coating of frost and ice.
They were both going to die, some voice whispered, some phantom, hallucinated voice. It was freezing, and not even half way through the night. Numbly, a thought crossed Merlin's mind. The last thing he might just possibly do would be save the Once and Future King's life. He could see Arthur shuddering from the cold and desperately wished they were somewhere else, anywhere else. He had to save him, it was his destiny. He had to, he couldn't just let the king die when there was something he could do to stop it. Not just because it was his 'destiny' to protect him. They were friends.
He didn't know if Arthur missed the magic he had used to stop the arrow, but he surely wouldn't miss this.
Arthur's rigid breathing filled his mind, he could hear the man's teeth clacking from where he was. It made a spark of panic claw at his throat.
Merlin just held out a trembling, crimson caked hand, and forced out a word. "Forbærnan," magic ran down his arm into his fingers, like his arm and only his arm had gone back to spring time and left the rest of his body in the cold, harsh climate they had been forsaken in
Magic leapt from his fingertips, igniting the ramshackle pile of sticks and logs. His eyes shifted from blue, to gold, to back again, and stiffly he lowered his head. Merlin cringed when he heard the king yelp and scramble away from the new flames, shock radiating around him, coming off of him in waves. Disbelief, betrayal. With a sudden urge to explain he swallowed against his dry throat, "Please, Let me explain, I-"
"Shut up," Arthur growled lowly.
A fresh silence filled the quiet noisy cave. A crushing silence, a painful silence. The wound went from pain to burning agony, hotter than the flames that now burned, obediently obeying his natural magic and filling the room with warmth and light. His heart beat wildly in his chest.
"Arthur," he tried, voice cracking into no more than a squeak.
"No," the other man replied to his manservant, more firmly.
"Please-"
"No!" Arthur finally snapped, blurting out a harsh yell.
Both men winced at the sound of it. New guilt settled in the room over the young monarch, and it thickened, because nothing seemed to want to let him take back his angry comment, or for that matter, live them down, the cave echoing them back to him, each time seeming to draw the betrayal and rage out even more.
"I'm sorry," Merlin choked out, his recently closed eyes watering dangerously. He wouldn't apologize for having magic, no, that was a part of him, it was what really made him Merlin, or, Emrys, it was for the lies. The deceit, the betrayal, or at least, that's what it would be in Arthur's eyes.
His heart panged painfully, and when he opened his eyes again, he watched the royal, back against the wall, one arm draped over one of his knees that was pulled towards his chest, head resting back against the stone, eyes vacantly watching the fire.
He felt like he was suffocating. Not metaphorically speaking, either. Death drew near, blood crept up his throat, fresh agony tore at his stomach. He could only heave heavy breaths, when suddenly it stopped. Barely could he get in gulps of air, panting turning to almost non existent breathing.
His quaking hands clawed at his own neck, shoes scrapping at the rock floor as he fearfully tried to breath again. Tugging at the red neckerchief, he opened his mouth in yet another desperate attempt. 'Mer-lin, what is with you and those ridiculous, neckerchief, things?' Arthur's voice echoed in a memory, pulling tears of distress from his eyes. Distress, misery. Loss.
"Merlin!" distantly he heard an underwater sounding, panicked cry. "D mnit!" cursed the voice. Arthur, he recognized in his odd state. As if suddenly the cold blooded terror drained out, replaced by a sort of, drifting peace.
"Heal yourself! Heal yourself, self sacrificial idiot!" anguish, the voice was laced with anguish. They'd been riding back from another... kindgom? Or had they been trying to find something for Gaius in the deep snow, trying to find something he needed for a patient. Or had there been something else? He didn't quite remember that bit.
Bandits.
Arrow going towards Arthur.
He'd changed its course.
He'd been hit.
He'd fallen.
He remembered... they'd been to far away from Camelot.
Cave.
Magic.
Suddenly he felt someone shaking him. He wanted to tell them to stop. And then he realized 'them' was Arthur. And he really wanted to call him a prat, or a carrot head, or, well, anything to get him to stop shaking him already... "As your king, I command you to heal yourself!"
Everything came to a stop, like every string on a violin popping at the same time.
What?
He was being asked, no, told, to use magic?
By Arthur?
And yet another shock was, he didn't even know he had to. Was Arthur injured?
The magic was spurred on by that, humming in the air around him as it tried to break through his skin, to fix whatever was wrong, to heal, to protect, it's main instinct of late. Instinctual magic coursed around the injury, trying to heal the skin with the arrow still inside. Then suddenly it was gone, pulled out, discarded, and the skin was pulling itself together.
And he was breathing. Deep breaths, air cascading into empty, sore lungs.
Then darkness, pitch black, calm, empty world, the world of blissful unconsciousness.
Gaius had told him he'd been out for two days straight. Apparently after he'd healed himself, Arthur had carried him out of the cave, couldn't find the horses, which had run off during the skirmish, so he'd continued on that way, until reaching Camelot. Honestly Merlin hadn't known it would have taken so much out of him to heal, but apparently...
Now he waited. Eating porridge in silence, lost in his thoughts. Because he did remember it somewhat. At least enough to remember the fire, to remember the pain. His thoughts raced, he'd imagined this a million different ways. The pyre, being hanged, beheaded, banished...
And so there he was. Expecting his execution. Expecting it from his best friend, all because Arthur didn't know how to properly make a fire. It was so painfully close to amusing and humorous that it made it hurt even more to think about what would happen.
"Gaius, what—" Merlin hastily spoke, cut off by his own body's need to swallow suddenly. "What do you think he'll do?" the fear hinted in his voice was worse than if he were screaming his anguish at the top of his lungs.
"Oh, my boy," Gaius sighed, reaching across the table to put a hand on the warlock's shoulder.
It was then that the door opened, the king walking in with a grim, but determined expression, and Gaius looking at his ward with a concerned, tired look, before getting up and
busying himself with other things.
Merlin opened his mouth to speak, but Arthur beat him to it, "I just want an explanation," he blurted, and sat down where Gaius had been, resting his folded hands on the table, expectantly waiting.
And so he explained. From the beginning, being born with magic, coming to Camelot, the prophecy of Emrys and the Once and Future king, and he kept explaining, until there was nothing left to say. Then just more of the quiet, more of Merlin staring at Arthur with resignation and patience in his eyes, more of Arthur blankly staring at the table.
"Merlin..." Arthur started, some unidentifiable emotion in his eyes as he rubbed a hand across his face. "I'm sorry, and thank you, for everything," he said, then finally looked up to meet the warlocks surprised gaze.
"What?" Merlin asked, voice raising in confusion.
"Don't make me repeat myself. You never finished polishing my armor, I told you I expected them to be spotless tomorrow... tomorrow, which was yesterday. And instead you decided to sleep," Arthur said. Merlin stared at him incredulously. After a moment his expression softened and a goofy smile replaced the tense facial features. Although something was still hidden behind both of their words, in their voices, on their faces. Maybe a new sense of respect, or understanding.