He's shaking and he feels sick.
He's on his knees, and he stares down at his bloodstained hands, unseeing as his vision blurs, tears welling up in his eyes, his body trembling.
The dagger lays fallen at his feet.
He knows this isn't the first time he's killed to keep Arthur safe—but this is the first time he's actually dealt the mortal blow with his own hands, without the use of magic. This is the first time he's ever taken a weapon and driven it into someone's body, feeling the flesh give way underneath the sharp edges of a blade. This is the first time he's heard someone's guttural scream of anguish, eyes full of fear and staring at him, choking on their own blood before the life drains from their face.
He hadn't meant to. He really hadn't meant to kill him. He had acted without thinking, the only thought running through his mind in the moment it happened was, I need to keep Arthur safe. And he had. Arthur was okay. There isn't a doubt about that. Arthur would live for another day. He had not failed his destiny.
Bandits had come. There had been so many of them. They had all attacked out of nowhere, and though swift, even Arthur couldn't take them all. Merlin had managed a few on his own, though Arthur had taken most of them, as always. But one was stealthier than the rest of them, and had a crossbow, and he had made the fatal mistake of aiming it at Arthur. Arthur, who didn't know, too busy fighting the others, wouldn't have been able to move quick enough, even if Merlin had shouted at him to move. He had just been so scared, so afraid that he would lose him, and he hadn't even thought to use his magic, fear seizing him by his heart. He had just grabbed the dagger from a dead bandit's belt and hurled it at the man, and didn't stop stabbing until Arthur's voice had broken into him, and he dropped it, blood soaking his hands completely and splattering his clothes.
He's panicking now, the events playing over and over in his mind. Merlin has been under Gaius' wing long enough to know he's going into shock. He grows cold but his heart is pounding in his chest, his pulse erratic in his neck and wrists. He's so unaware of what's going on around him, he can't feel anything, not even the magic rustling beneath his skin. He's crying now, and what he can feel is the tears streaking down his face, but only because the taste of salt finally reaches his tongue. He can't breathe, he feels like he's drowning.
He doesn't hear Arthur coming up behind him, doesn't hear the tentative voice, asking if he's okay. He doesn't resist him as Arthur slowly pulls him to his feet, taking him by the upper arm and leading him towards the stream not too far off. He doesn't resist him as Arthur puts him down on his knees in front of it, and dunks his hands into the chilly water.
Merlin watches how the blood easily flows from his clammy hands, turning the formerly clear water red. He doesn't move them at all, however, doesn't make any movement to continue to sponge away the sticky crimson substance from his skin. He still feels like he's choking, and he's struggling to breathe air into his lungs and he's still sobbing and he needs to stop, wants to stop, but he can't and thinking that he needs to stop only makes him sob harder.
He feels a warmth from behind him, suddenly, and it's Arthur's chest, pressed against his back. He reaches out and takes Merlin's hands and he feels safe, somehow, Arthur's hands warm and callous as he begins to scrub the blood from his fingers, stroking his palms, taking care to be delicate, rubbing with just enough pressure to remove, but not to hurt. Arthur repeats the motion on the other hand, cleaning them still, long after the blood is gone.
Arthur pulls his hands out of the water, but doesn't make any other movements. He backs away to give him a bit of space, and Merlin suddenly aches for the warmth again. Arthur returns into his line of vision next to him, kneeling by his side, looking at him with barely concealed concern. Merlin continues to stare at his fingers, his palms, gazing at how the droplets of water cling to the pale flesh, dripping down over the creases, but it doesn't make him stop crying. He can still see it, can still feel it, and he feels hysterical, mad even. He looks to Arthur, now, and chokes out,
"It's still there. The blood, it's still there. It won't go away, it won't go away, it won't wash away Arthur," he murmurs, and dunks them back in, his body surging with panic. He begins to claw at the skin on his hands, digging his nails into them, leaving indentations, as if trying to rip the blood from them, as if tearing at it will make it go away, will cleanse him of the taint he now feels within himself. "I didn't...I didn't mean—I didn't mean to do it. So much blood...please, I'm...I'm scared. I'm so scared, Arthur. Why won't it wash away, Arthur? Why won't it go away?"
He continues scrubbing at his skin fruitlessly.
Arthur grabs him by the wrists, then, yanking them from the stream once more. "Merlin," Arthur hisses, and he sounds angry, and Merlin can't bear for him to be angry with him. He doesn't want him to be angry because he's weak and upset because he's killed a man when Arthur's done it a million times before him—he begins to stumble out apologies, tripping over his own tongue, and he's still crying, even more, if it's possible.
His prince softens, then, and Merlin feels the press of Arthur's thumb trailing just below his eyes, wiping away the fresh tears he's shedding. It's such an intimate gesture, one he would never expect from him, and Arthur cradles his face with both hands. Merlin closes his eyes, touching the gentle fingers cupping his face with his own.
Arthur whispers quietly, "Hey, hey..." and he says it with such tenderness that it makes Merlin's heart ache, and then, hesitantly, Arthur leans forward and presses a kiss to each eyelid, as if the gentle touch of his lips will make the tears go away. He kisses him on either cheek, and on the corner of his mouth, and Merlin's still trying desperately to breathe, finding it harder than ever at this point with the affection he's being shown. His chest constricts, and then Arthur is pulling him forward, into his strong arms, holding him steady. Near instinctively, he presses his face into his neck, nosing at the warm skin, and finally he breathes in, the air pouring into his lungs like sweet wine. Against his chest, he grips the fabric of Arthur's tunic, and he can hear the pounding tune of Arthur's heart beating in his chest, a reminder that what he's done has kept his prince safe, and alive. It sounds like music, he thinks, and it sends a rush through him.
"It's alright," Arthur mumbles into his hair, and he's holding him as if he's something delicate, something fragile, something that he wants to protect more than anything. "It's alright now, Merlin. Don't worry, the blood is gone, it's all gone now, I promise. You've been so strong, you did so well, you can rest now. We're both safe, we're safe now, you don't have to be afraid anymore. Everything is going to be fine."
The words are like a blessing, and ever the sweet they sound on Arthur's tongue, how it rolls off and fills him up entirely, and he finds himself believing him.
They stay like this for a while, until he feels at ease, their breathing the only spoken words they hear.
So, um, yeah. I'm not entirely sure where this came from.
I wrote this a few days ago, born out of some rather complex emotions. Plus, I just felt the need for some Protective!Arthur cradling Merlin and comforting him. Sometimes I think that Merlin's destiny really is crushing him, and I think that he needs to realize every now and again that he's not alone. That his destiny is also someone else's burden to bear and that the weight doesn't need to solely be on him.
Anyway, I actually really like this piece. Which is rare, but yeah, I do like this one.
Thanks for reading, and please enjoy! Feedback is always appreciated.