If the vision hadn't been clear enough, the Great Dragon made it certain. Camlann would be Arthur's final battle. In the months since he had the vision, Merlin has dreaded this day, when the time Arthur has left can be counted in hours.
He finds himself now in Arthur's chambers in Camelot, windows dark and candles flickering low in their candlesticks. It could be any other night. But tomorrow morning Arthur will ride out to Camlann with his knights, to where Morgana waits with Mordred and his sword. Tonight is their last night together, before Merlin must go to the Crystal Cave, and Arthur must go to battle.
Terror wells up in Merlin as he faces Arthur, the light dim on his face. The prophecy and the Dragon both insist that it is Arthur's destiny to die by Mordred's hand, but here, standing a breath away from his king, Merlin knows he will do anything he can to defy fate.
The look Arthur gives is tender, and trusting, and Merlin fights back a sob because this could be the last time he will ever look into those eyes and see only love, all concentrated on him.
He thinks of all the times when he's seen Arthur hurt, his face contorted with rage, or crumpled in grief, eyes flashing with betrayal. When Morgana turned, when Uther died, when Agravaine's allegiance was revealed, Arthur was hurt. In those times Arthur was a king, strong in the face of struggle and unyielding against the stress of being a ruler. But when it's just Arthur and Merlin, alone in Arthur's chambers, the hurt melts away until there's nothing but lust and adoration in his eyes, all for Merlin, and his cries of grief turn into moans of pleasure as they tumble onto the bed.
Those eyes are the same now, tender and loving and so blue, and Merlin can't bring himself to look away. How can he, when he might never again see them with the spark of life? How can he do anything but sear their image into his mind, preserve them in his memory and hide it away forever? He wants to keep Arthur, safe and sound, away from battle and hardship and danger, but he knows that's impossible. Arthur will fight for his people until the very end, and Merlin almost hates him for it.
He almost hates that Arthur will do anything for the sake of the people he loves, because even if he doesn't say it, Arthur would kill himself in a heartbeat if it meant saving someone else. For himself, for his people, Arthur would do it. The king would walk through the gates of hell if it came to that, and for that Merlin almost hates him.
Almost.
Merlin can't bring himself to hate Arthur, no matter how hard he tries. Every time Arthur sacrifices himself or throws himself into the mouth of danger, only just escaping death, Merlin wants to hate him. It would be so much easier to hate him than to love him.
He wishes he could hate Arthur's nobility. He wishes he could hate the way Arthur trains for hours every day, dedicating his life to his kingdom. He wishes he could hate Arthur's straw-colored hair and golden skin that shines in the sunlight and glows in the moonlight, when he's sweating from the effort of swinging his sword or pleasuring Merlin. He wishes he could hate the way Arthur looks at him when they're alone. If he hated it it would be so much easier to let him go.
Something of what Merlin is thinking must show on his face, because Arthur smiles softly and takes Merlin's hands in his, rubbing the knuckles with his thumbs in soothing circles.
And then Merlin is kissing him, kissing him like this is the last time, because for all he knows, it is. Tomorrow Arthur and the knights ride out to Camlann, and Merlin won't be there to protect him. He kisses Arthur with everything he has, fisting his hands in Arthur's shirt and hair, desperate to commit every last detail of his king's body to memory.
Arthur kisses him back just as desperate, hands strong where they grip Merlin's hips. Their bodies press against each other, fitting perfectly as though the gods shaped them that way, made to be together. Their lips move, soft and hard all at once, tongues moving together like they have a thousand times before.
They end up on the bed with their clothes on the floor, hands roaming and mapping each others' bodies, Arthur groaning Merlin's name. And when Merlin opens him up and pushes into him, he does so tenderly, fingertips tracing Arthur's jaw and down to his neck, each touch burning Merlin's skin. Every touch, every sound, every movement is so precious, for every one could be the last. Time is running out, until the night is over and Merlin will lose him.
Tonight he worships his king with his body, running gentle hands down Arthur's chest and his sides, drawing out a shudder. Kneeling in the cradle of Arthur's legs, Merlin adores him, thrusting slowly, cherishing the feeling of being so close to Arth. The sensation builds, as he feels Arthur's hands on him, gripping his shoulders and the backs of his thighs. Merlin presses bites down on Arthur's collarbone, soothing it with a kiss. He wants to draw this out for as long as possible, to do justice to all the nights that will never happen. Each thrust and each kiss is a promise of his love, which he uses when words fail him, and he knows Arthur understands.
Every part of Merlin, every limb, every drop of blood, every molecule, moves for Arthur, lives and breathes and exists for him. Arthur is the star, shining bright and brilliant around which Merlin revolves, bound by some inexplicable force, strong and unbreakable. Merlin will protect him with everything he has, and he will fight until his dying breath.
Arthur's name is a prayer on his lips, spilling from his mouth long after he comes. When Arthur has finished and lies spent beneath the sheets, Merlin keeps going, chanting Arthur's name brokenly, pressing his mouth to every inch of Arthur's skin, relishing in the scent of him. He doesn't realize he's crying until he feels Arthur gently wipe the tears from his eyes, cupping Merlin's face in his hands.
"Shh," Arthur murmurs, pressing a kiss to either side of Merlin's face, kissing the tears as they come. "It's just another battle, it will be alright. I'll be alright."
Merlin can't stifle the sob that erupts from him. Arthur doesn't understand and Merlin can't tell him, can't tell him that this is so much more than a battle. Camlann is a name he's been dreading, for it means losing his king, his heart, his world. He can't say that Arthur is going to die, and that Merlin is scared, scared to fail his destiny and lose his king. Arthur thinks Merlin is afraid of the battle, but there's so much more, so much he doesn't understand that Merlin can't explain.
"It's alright," Arthur whispers soothingly, pulling Merlin close, wrapping his arms around him and pressing his mouth to the top of Merlin's hair. Merlin shudders and clings to Arthur's torso, as though if he loosens his grip Arthur will float away forever. Burrowing his face into Arthur's chest, he lets himself be held. If this is it, if this is the last night he has, he'll hold onto it with every fiber of his being.
Arthur's arms are a comforting heat around him, enveloping Merlin in a bubble of warmth and love. In sleep, Arthur's chest rises and falls steadily, the rhythm calming. Merlin presses his palm against Arthur's chest, spreading his fingers over Arthur's heart. How many heartbeats does he have left? How many breaths, until the number drops into the dozens and then keeps dropping until it reaches zero, when Mordred's blade will pierce his flesh? How long until Arthur's body will be still in death instead of sleep?
Arthur's face is peaceful, bathed in a halo of silver moonlight. He doesn't know his time is running out. He doesn't know that the man he holds in his arms is dying a thousand deaths, all for him.
Merlin removes his hand from Arthur's chest and replaces it with his mouth, kissing it softly. Sleep now, he thinks, as Arthur shifts and sighs against Merlin's hair. Rest now, Arthur. I'm here, and I'll watch over you. I will protect you, I swear it.
With this vow, he succumbs to the exhaustion of worrying and protecting. He too falls asleep, lying in his king's arms on this final night.
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