Of Griffon's, Magic, and Injury

Chapter One

Merlin.

Merlin had... magic?

What?

He didn't want to believe it, but here was the evidence, the proof, right in front of his eyes. Merlin, his idiotic, bumbling, injured servant was using... Magic.

The griffon, rearing up before Arthur, about the strike the killing blow on the undefended prince, roared in agony as the spell hit it from the side in a rush of flames and light. Merlin was on his feet again, palm outstretched, eyes golden. There was a jagged rip in his thin shirt, a horrible red colour seeping into the blue fabric at an alarming rate. The heat of the spell was so close to Arthur's face that it singed his skin, and his sword lay four feet away from him, sticking up out of the ground where it was ripped from his grip. His shoulder hurt, the armour there bent, and the skin below bruised but not broken. The body of the griffon crashed to the ground, limp and unresponsive. When had this simple hunting trip gone so wrong? Arthur found himself wondering, staring across at the figure of his swaying friend. The gold colour faded from Merlin's eyes, revealing a startling, terrified blue that locked with his own eyes before Merlin's slid closed (a crime, surely to hide such a beautiful colour?) and the exposed warlock tumbled to the ground in a heap of tangled limbs.

"Merlin!"

Arthur stumbled over to the small, fallen figure, well aware the boy had just saved his life. One blow from those claws and he would have been cleaved in half. But Merlin... Merlin...

The boy was deathly white, his skin contrasting horribly with his dark hair. His breath came in short, pained wheezes and...

Arthur pressed both hands of the wound, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. Why? Said a little voice in the back of his head. Why are you helping a sorcerer? Magic is evil. Magic is evil. Merlin must be evil. It said. Arthur pushed it aside, to the very back of his mind. He was not thinking about this now, not when Merlin, his servant, his friend, was lying on the ground, bleeding his very life-blood into the dirt. But somehow, he couldn't imagine the boy as evil at all. He was a complete idiot, for crying out loud.

His hands still covering the wound, Arthur pulled the boy's limp body into his arms. Merlin's head lolled weakly onto Arthur's uninjured shoulder, and his mouth hung open slightly as he gasped for breath.

Staring down at Merlin's terribly white face, he found himself remembering how they'd got into this mess.

They had been hunting. Caught a deer. Well... Arthur had been hunting he'd just dragged Merlin along, because he knew how much it annoyed the boy, as a sort of punishment for forgetting to clean his boots his morning. And Arthur had wanted to. They'd been riding back, Arthur insisting they go the shortest way possible. But Merlin wasn't sure, he said these parts of the woods were said to be dangerous. Arthur knew that too, but he'd laughed and called Merlin a coward, riding on boldly through the unfamiliar terrain. No-one in their right mind would go in this part of the forest. Merlin had said. No-one ever did. And then the griffon had come out of nowhere, tearing the carcass of the deer from the back of Merlin's horse, knocking the boy off, and making the mare bolt off into the woods. Arthur had watched Merlin fall in what felt like slow-motion, as he yelled his friends name and drew his sword.

The griffon had been quick, Arthur remembered. Arthur had leapt of his horse, and Merlin had been struggling up off the ground, fighting for a standing position, breathing heavily – pained gasps, confused and disorientated from his fall, when the griffon, its jaws locked around the body of the deer, lashed out towards the boy. Arthur had been running towards him, sword in hand, when the powerful blow from the griffon caught the servant across his chest. The sharpened claws ripped into the soft flesh of his chest. The boy was thrown backwards by the force of the blow. He hit a tree, head snapping backwards, a terrible look of fear and pain plastered across his features, before his fragile body crumpled as easily as paper, and he slumped down into the relentlessly black world of unconscious. The griffon had its back turned; looking away from the prince, stalking towards the limp figure at the base of the tree. It dropped the body of the deer. It had found a better, defenceless, tastier meal. With a roar that may or may not have resembled Merlin's name, Arthur swung his blade at the hide of the griffon, and howling with pain, the beast whipped round, its powerful paws ripping the sword from his hands and landing a glancing blow to his armoured shoulder. The prince was thrown backwards, onto the leaf-moulded ground. His breathing suddenly didn't work quite right, an intense pain throbbed in his shoulder, his vision wavering. The beast turned towards him, stalking it's new pray. Arthur forced himself upright. His sword was out of reach. His vision sharpened. The griffon was raising a gigantic paw. Ready to rip him in half. And then it was falling. And there was a scorching heat beside him. And Merlin was standing, yelling words in a language Arthur did not understand, eyes filled with rage and power, and the gold glint... of magic.

Magic.

The griffon was dead now. And Merlin limp in his arms, life blood all over his hands. He had to get the boy back to Camalot, back to Gaius. He didn't know enough of medicine to heal... something like this. Merlin's shirt around the gashes was in ribbons; Arthur tore them further apart to see the damage fully. Cursing, Arthur pulled the damaged armour off over his head, wincing as shots of pain laced through his shoulder. He ripped his undershirt into strips, and tied them together in a make-shift bandage, wrapping them gently, but firmly around his friend's chest. Merlin shivered. Arthur frowned, the expression darkening the wrinkles of worry on his forehead. Merlin shivered again. He pressed a bloodied hand to Merlin's forehead, wincing at the heat radiating from the boy. He had a fever, already, and there was blood seeping, thick and hot, through the make-shift bandage. Curing again, Arthur wrapped his cloak carefully around the boy, and fetched his own horse (Merlin's was nowhere to be seen), and hefted the limp boy into the saddle. Arthur clambered up behind him, slipping his hands either side of the shaking boy, to hold the reins, and his friend, steady. Merlin's body lay limply against his chest, and his head lolled against his uninjured shoulder. Every wheezing, short, pained breath Merlin took became like a life-line of Arthur as they rode wildly though the forest. Arthur listened to each gasp, praying another would follow. His heart pounded and throbbed in his ribcage as he drove his horse faster, faster.

"Merlin?" He would ask at regular intervals, only to be met by the awful, unresponsive silence. Horrible, terrible, cruel silence.

Faster, Faster.

He wrapped one arm around Merlin's waist, holding him tightly to him as his friend body was wracked with shivers; he could feel Merlin's heartbeat fluttering weakly in the boy's chest. Like the wings of a hummingbird. But it was there.

Was it enough?

It had to be.

Faster, Faster.