Be my mind and I'll be your strength, a merlin fanfic

No slash. Just really strong bromance.

My fault.

The endless mantra beats a rhythm in the king's head. Never faltering, never stopping, never pausing. Always there in the back of his mind, soft enough to not interfere with things, but loud enough that he couldn't ever quite ignore it. He didn't know how long he lay there with his head in his hands and the form in his lap, cursing himself, this impossible event that had befallen him and all of his past shortcomings concerning the one person he cared most about. But with the unmoving figure in front of him, it was hard to think of something other than his failures.

My fault.

It wasn't really the king's fault. Not directly anyway. That's what he kept telling himself. But there was nothing he could have done or told himself that would make this any less his fault. Because even in his state of shock and panic, there had to have been something that he could have done. Something that would have prevented this horrible turn of events. But he wasn't fast enough. He wasn't strong enough. He wasn't brave enough. He wasn't good enough. He wasn't ever good enough when Merlin was around.

My fault.

He knew he should do something about the limp form in his arms. He knew he should get them both back home before something even worse happened. That made him laugh. Not a carefree laugh. A cruel, ironic, dark laugh that shouldn't have ever come out of his mouth. It was twisted and black and not right. But then again, nothing was right. Not now. Maybe not ever. Because it didn't really seem like there was anything else that could go wrong.

My fault.

The form in his arms moaned. It shocked him actually. He had thought the boy had died right there in his arms. The moan brought him to his senses. He was still alive. He couldn't give up now. How could he have condemned them both to death out here? Even if the boy had died, how could he live with himself if he left the boy out here, alone and unremembered? Even if survival was slim, and the conditions were bleak, he would not give up. The unconscious moan the boy had made was the changing factor in everything. Because now it seemed that he had something to live for. Even if it was his fault they were in this mess, he would make sure it was him who got them out of it.

My fault.

With the prone figure securely on his horse, he rode as fast and as hard as he could. They were far away from home, it was cold and wet, they were both hungry and dehydrated, it was dark and dreary and it seemed like morning was a thousand years away, but now something akin to hope was fluttering in his chest. He could feel it brushing against his heart, his soul, his mind. It was small, so small he would have missed it completely had he not realized that it was the boy's moan that made the beating of hope stronger. He clutched his precious package close to his heart, where the fluttering seemed to be strongest. And with every hoof print and broken branch they left behind, his eyes got brighter, his breathing easier, his mind sharper, and his arms stronger.

My fault.

Riding through the forest like something from his darkest nightmares was chasing him, made him tired. Very tired. It seemed the horse was tired as well when it dropped dead on the ground. Swearing under his breath, he untied the boy from the back of the horse and decided to make his way back home on foot. By himself, he would have made it, but not with someone on his back who was dead weight, even if said dead weight was skin and bones and didn't weigh more than armor. Eventually, his breath was labored, his feet were too heavy to lift, and his shoulders were starting to go numb from the weight on them. But he couldn't stop. Not when so much was at stake. Because however much pain he was in, his friend was in pain ten times worse. He couldn't be selfish enough to stop when he friend's life was on the line, when his life paled in comparison to that of Merlin's.

My fault.

He had to stop. He had to. There was no way he was any use to his friend in this state. Not when he was half dead himself, and his friend was more than half dead. Trying not to lose the feeling of hope fluttering in his chest, he put his friend's body on the ground as gently as he could. But the hope vanished. He couldn't keep it in, couldn't get a good hold on it, couldn't make it stay in his chest. It flew out as soon as it had flown in to comfort him. He knew it was unlikely that his friend would survive the night, with the injuries he had sustained. With all that had happened, he couldn't believe that it took this much for him to finally realize that his friend had been right the entire time. He knew he should have listened to him when he had the chance.

My fault.

If his friend wasn't so much of an idiot all the time, he might have believed him. The boy always said weird, cryptic things when they were on hunts, patrols, battles, visiting other kingdoms, in the morning, when a bath was being drawn, when visiting dignitaries were arguing over peace treaties. It was always the same thing. The same "funny feeling," that something was wrong, that something was going to end badly. Half of the time he didn't give his friend the time of day when he said things like that. But, more often than not, they ended up being right. You'd have thought he would have learned to trust his friend's "funny feelings" by now, but he never listened to them. Which made this trip so much more painful. His friend had even said he knew something bad was going to happen, that he had a funny feeling. But he paid no heed to his friend's warnings, and had gone on this trip anyway. Which made this trip his fault. All his fault.

My fault.

His friend had said they shouldn't take this route. But it was the same route they always took. The boy had a strange look on his face, like he knew something no one else did. But his friend had only mentioned the fact that they shouldn't take this path. Of course, he paid no attention to his friend's advice. They had taken the same path they always took. As they went further and further into the woods, his friend's face had grown more and more concerned. But, he didn't pay any attention to it. He was arrogant and selfish and didn't want to admit to his servant and friend that he actually needed his advice. So they had continued on, while his friend stayed closer to his side than was completely necessary.

My fault.

They had come out of nowhere. His friend's funny feeling had been correct yet again. He really shouldn't be surprised anymore, but at every turn, whenever he thought he was finally getting to know his friend, more pieces would fit into the puzzle, and he had no idea where they fit. He thought surely by now he must have multiple puzzles to deal with, and that his friend was probably a maze of puzzles, each one more complicated and intricate than the last. He would spend hours working on where one particular piece fit into the whole of Merlin, but eventually gave up, and mentally saved it for another day when perhaps it would make more sense. His funny feelings were one of those such pieces. In fact, he had just been thinking that all those random funny feelings were just his friend's stomach, and they didn't really mean anything, when his party was ambushed. He had not been ready for the abrupt attack, but nonetheless, he leapt down from his horse and entered the melee without as much as a second thought. Sword slashing, eyes blazing with rage, feet moving with the skill acquired from years of brutal practice, he made a ring of death around him, and anyone who got too close would feel the sting of his blade. The king was so caught up in his dance with death, that he missed the sword that was meant for him, swing down in a deadly arc. But his friend did not miss it. With a cry of outrage, his friend threw himself in front of the blade meant for his king. The sharpened tip sliced through his body like it was made of paper. His friend had just enough time to cry out in pain before he crumpled to the forest floor. At the cry of pain, the king whirled around just in time to see his friend fall to the ground in a heap of gangly limbs and frayed fabric. All at once, the battle around him ceased, and he only saw his friend's body slowly falling to the ground, gravity having won the battle against his thin body. Then he saw red as he cut down every single one of his enemies, imagining that each one was the one who had done this to the boy. To his friend. To his brother.

My fault.

The combination of adrenaline and tunnel vision after the battle blinded him to his own needs. His focus was on the pale boy in his arms. The pale boy who had sacrificed himself so that his king may live. The stupid, loyal idiot who had too much instinct and not enough self-preservation. But with his friend's body in his arms, he couldn't really bring himself to see the faults in the boy. Because yes, he was much too loyal and much too friendly and much too kind to everyone, but in the end, were those things really that bad? They were the things that made his friend who he was. And although the king would never admit it to anyone, especially his servant, he wouldn't have his friend any other way. With these thoughts keeping him going, the king rode with the pale boy on his own horse, protecting him the best he could against the faceless danger of death.

My fault.

Somehow they got lost. The rain had come down in sheets, blinding the king and drenching his cloak which was really just for show and didn't do much for warmth. Really, it was much too easy to get lost in the forest, especially when your nerves were strung so tight someone could have played the harp on them, and you were supporting your friend who was going to die and it was all your fault really.

My fault.

When their horse had dropped dead of exhaustion, it really was the last straw. No, actually the last straw was when they had to stop because he himself was going to drop dead of exhaustion. He really didn't deserve the loyalty and friendship his servant had provided him with. Not when the best he could do for his friend was make sure he died at least in a cave, warm by the fire and not alone. Because his friend deserved more than this death.

My fault.

The king smoothed his friend's hair away from his eyes, revealing a face unmarred by the ugly sights of life. Somehow, in all the mayhem following the battle, the king had remembered to bind his friend's wound, though he couldn't remember doing it. Now the bandage was almost completely red with the blood still seeping out of the slice in his chest. Groaning with frustration, the king allowed himself five seconds when he closed his eyes, leaned his head on his friend's bloodied chest, and cried.

My fault.

In the middle of all the indecision that clouded the king's mind, he had remembered to get a fire started so they wouldn't freeze to death. He didn't know how he accomplished it, his own body getting ready to quit on him with one wrong move or too much exertion, but with his friend relying on him, he didn't think he had much to complain about.

My fault.

No, not your fault.

Somehow, the chant that had taken place in the king's mind had faltered. It had changed for the first time since he had seen his friend's body crash towards the earth. The last repetition of his mantra had seemed…different. Not his own. Because there was nothing the king could have said that would change his mind about the fact that it was his fault his friend was lying almost dead in a cave that would probably be where he stayed for the rest of his short life. No, this last voice was definitely not the same. But, it was a welcome change from the guilt eating away the rest of his sanity.

My fault.

No, not your fault.

There it was again. The new voice in his head that couldn't have meant anything good. But, somehow, it comforted him. Somehow, this voice filled him with a kind of peacefulness he hadn't been able to feel since the attack that had stolen his very reason for living. The voice felt like warm spring days with daisies and cold lemonade with clinking ice cubes, and hot summer afternoons with crashing waves of the ocean and grainy sand between his toes, and cold winter nights with steaming hot chocolate that burned his tongue and warmed him from his toes to his head, and chilled autumn mornings with frost on the windows and red leaves that littered the ground like sprinkles on cupcakes. It filled him with happiness, but was strangely familiar. He had heard this voice before, not in his mind, but out loud somewhere. And it helped him think that, maybe for a little bit, he might be able to get out of this mess, and come out the other side still alive.

My fault.

You can do this. Keep going. Don't give up.

Yet again, the new but old voice in his head had whispered something to him. It should have bothered him that something, or someone had been able to infiltrate his very brain and affect him like this, but the voice was so comforting, he couldn't really believe that it meant any harm to him. But its message had changed. It had started to persuade him that he could keep going. It had started to tell him that he couldn't give up yet. He could still fight this inevitable thing. He could fight the death that was threatening to overcome his friend. He wasn't helpless. He could keep going. He couldn't give up. Not when his friend needed him. Now more than ever. Because he had given another moan. Barely there, but it showed that he was still alive, still breathing, still there.

My fault.

Stay warm.

The voice reminded him that he needed to keep the fire going if he wanted to save his friend. Cursing his stupidity, the king clambered to his feet, previous ailments and aches and pains forgotten, as he traipsed through the forest, searching for the wood that would keep his friend alive.

My fault.

Stop blaming.

Easier said than done. It was the king's fault they were in this mess, his fault his friend was dying, his fault they were stranded here without any way to get home, his fault they were going to die here alone, his fault his friend would never realize how important he was to his king. He should have told him when he had the chance to. No matter what the voice said, it was his fault, and he would blame himself until the day they died. And until they got help, that wouldn't be very long. Because it was cold. And the temperature was dropping. Fast.

My fault.

Leave the cave.

Even though the voice had, up until this point, had said things that were more or less sensible, the king didn't really believe that leaving the cave would do much good. It might do more harm than good actually. He shook his head. Why didn't he see this before? The voice was trying to trick him into dying, leading him to his doom outside the cave. How could he have been so blind to the true intentions of the voice? He needed to save himself and his friend, without the help of the insane voice in his head.

My fault.

LEAVE THE CAVE.

Should he listen? The voice had helped him see reason, had cut through the haze of indecision and guilt that had been clouding his mind in the aftereffects of the battle, had helped him realize he could do something for his friend. How could he even trust himself, with all these conflicting thoughts and emotions in him? He was filled with the happiness the voice provided, but deep down he knew that this situation he was in didn't call for happiness. It called for action. So, did he listen to the voice and say hell with sanity, or did he listen to his own voice of reason and decide his own fate? Would leaving the cave save them, or damn them?

My fault.

LEAVE THE CAVE!

The king decided that since his own reasoning had failed him for the time being, the voice was the only thing he could trust, which was strange because hearing voices in your head that weren't your own was supposed to be a bad sign. But, he reasoned, he already knew he was slowly losing his grip on reality, so what was the harm? The king decided that leaving the cave would not put them in a worse situation than the one they were already in. Grabbing his friend by the waist and heaving him over his shoulder, the king strolled out of the cave, and into the swirling vortex of life and death that would probably sweep them up and destroy them. Wasn't he getting poetic today…

My fault.

Left.

Directions? Did he have a built in map programmed in his brain? For one second, the king was his own self again, sarcastic and confident in his own ability to find their way out of the forest. But then the cloud of guilt was pulled over his eyes again, and he fell under the spell of the voice, desperate for something he could depend on. So he turned left, hoping he was doing the right thing by blindly following this voice that maybe wasn't even there at all.

My fault.

Right.

It had been a while since he had heard the voice. He had walked and walked until it felt like he had walked to the edge of the earth. His feet were worn numb and his shoulder had long since gone numb with the weight thrown over it. Every once in a while, the king would stop and make sure that the boy was still breathing. In the cave, the king had tried to get him to eat something, but with the pale boy unconscious, there was little he could do except force it down his friend's throat, but the king hadn't wanted him to choke on it. He had dripped water down his friend's throat, and kept the fire going until he left the cave. He hoped it would be enough to keep his friend going until they either happened upon home, or they found someone to help, or he dropped dead in exhaustion. Between him and the voice, the king hoped it was the first, and not the last.

My fault.

I'm sorry.

It was the first time in a while the voice hadn't given the king instructions. He didn't think he deserved those two words. Those words were the ones he should have been saying to his friend. His idiot loyal best friend who thought it was okay to sacrifice himself and then fall unconscious before he could even utter a single snarky comment. Those words didn't belong to him. They belonged to the limp figure on his back who was getting weaker by the minute.

My fault.

Brothers.

It seemed like the voice was getting weaker. That scared the king more than it should. The voice was nothing, probably the result of too much stress and nervous tension and cold and hunger. But the calming effect the voice had on him was too precious to let go. The king begged the voice to hang on, to not give up. He told the voice you can do this. Keep going. Don't give up. Because now it was his turn to keep the voice going. Not once did he ponder the meaning of the voice's message though. Because he didn't have a brother. If he didn't get help soon, he wouldn't even have a best friend. But it never occurred to him that they might be one and the same thing.

My fault.

Brothers.

This time the voice seemed insistent that the king understand the message. With the word seemed to come great strength, and the voice didn't seem as weak. Brothers. The king didn't have any brothers though. The only thing close to family was the pale boy on his back. The king looked at the broken form of his best friend and could have sworn he saw the faintest hint of a smile playing around the pale, blue lips. Brothers. Was that what the pale boy was to him? Brothers. The king supposed that a brother was an acceptable type of relationship the king could have. After all, brothers were family, and you couldn't choose your family right? With a small smirk hovering on his lips, he didn't catch the slight widening of the smile on his friend's lips as the king thought of the word brothers and connected it with Merlin.

My fault.

Thank you.

The king didn't think those two words applied to him any more than the other ones did. He didn't deserve the voice's thanks. It should be the king thanking the voice for not giving up, for helping him save his friend. Not the other way around.

My fault.

Eat.

The voice was even weaker now. Once again, the king was worried, more so than he should be for the voice that had no body. But, the message did make sense. It had been ages since he had last eaten. The king supposed it was because of looking after his insolent servant that he had forgotten to eat. For another second, it seemed like the king was back to himself, teasing his friend, jokes being traded back and forth between friends. But the returning joke that should have come from his friend never came. And that made the king unbearably sad.

My fault.

Prat.

It seemed that the voice had picked up on his thoughts and supplied an insult to lift up his mood. Since his idiotic friend wasn't around to keep his ego in check, the voice had given him a helping hand. And once again, the king was grateful for the voice.

My fault.

We are going to be okay.

It was the longest sentence the voice had thought of since it had first come to the king. Although it was faint, barely there, it filled the king with hope. And this time, it did more than flutter in his chest near his heart. No, this time the hope filled his entire body, thumping in time with his heartbeat, because there, off in the distance, almost unrecognizable with the trees blocking it, there, so close, was home.

My fault.

I'm sorry.

Those words again. The king still didn't deserve them. But somehow, the king sensed that this time was different than the first time. This time the voice had seemed strangely resigned. Like there was no way to get out of saying those words. Strangely…final. Like there was an end to this road, but the voice wasn't going to get to see the end. This scared the king. He was more scared now than when the voice was growing weaker. Because he didn't think he was going to be able to survive without the voice guiding him and helping him.

My fault.

Soon.

Somehow the king knew that this was the voice's way of saying that the road ended soon. For the voice, but not for the king. And the king hoped to whatever god who cared to listen to him, that it wasn't the end of the road for his friend.

My fault.

Goodbye.

NO! No, it couldn't be now! Not when they were so close! The king could see the spires of his kingdom just ahead. He was so close he could smell the unmistakable aroma of freshly baked bread in the commoners' square. He was so close! The voice couldn't give up now. The king ran as fast as his tired legs could take him, through the cobblestoned courtyard. Though he didn't quite know why he was running. What could he do for a figment of his imagination that had all of a sudden decided to give up on him? Was it because the king had finally reached his destination that his demented brain thought he no longer needed the urging of the voice? Was the voice all in his head? Or was it real? The king couldn't bear the lost contact with the only thing that had kept him sane.

Eventually, the king realized that there was nothing he could do for the strange voice in his mind. But he could help his friend. The king ran towards the physician's chambers, where his friend would hopefully be able to be helped. For now, the king would only worry about one friend at a time. And right now, the friend he could help the most was Merlin. Then he could worry about the lack of guidance the voice had provided him. And the fact that he had just called the intruding voice in his head a friend. That was definitely worrying.

My fault.

The king was back to blaming himself. One look at his oldest friend's face as he glanced at the limp figure on the king's back was enough to tell him that things were not good. But the king couldn't give up hope. There was still a small flutter in his chest, right in his heart that the voice had left behind. And he couldn't bear to give up the last gift the voice had given him. So he held his friend's pale hand, and looked at his pale face, and hoped with all his heart that he had not been too late to save one of his friends.

My fault.

His friend was not waking up. After two days in the infirmary, he was still no better than when the king brought him back from the forest. And what was even more worrying was the fact that there seemed to be nothing wrong with him. Of course, there was the myriad of injuries on his body, and the massive sword cut that had almost sliced him in half, but he wasn't in any more danger of infection, or bleeding out. He wasn't starving, because the king and the physician had taken turns shoving food down the boy's throat. He wasn't dehydrated, because three times a day, the king would tip drops of water into his friend's mouth, begging him to wake up with every drop that disappeared in his mouth. The king didn't know what was wrong. To make things worse, the voice had not returned since saying that final word of abandonment. Slowly, the king was retreating back into the dark place he had been before the voice had found him. But this time, the king didn't think there would be a savior who would drag him out of the darkness.

My fault.

Hello my brother.

The king had been sitting next to his friend's bed, waiting for sleep to overcome his senses when he heard it. The voice. The voice that had been absent for days ever since the king had taken his friend home. The king whipped his head up at the thought of the voice returning to him. Tears gathered in his eyes when he realized that he would no longer be alone. And his happiness grew as he saw the piercing blue gaze of his friend looking back at him.

"Hello my brother." The voice that felt like warm spring days with daisies and cold lemonade with clinking ice cubes, and hot summer afternoons with crashing waves of the ocean and grainy sand between his toes, and cold winter nights with steaming hot chocolate that burned his tongue and warmed him from his toes to his head, and chilled autumn mornings with frost on the windows and red leaves that littered the ground like sprinkles on cupcakes. The tears spilled down the king's cheeks when he made the connection between the words brother, Merlin, and the voice, which were one and the same, and would never leave him alone ever again.

Be my mind.

And I'll be your strength.

Did anyone notice how I changed the number of times I repeated "my fault" to match how Arthur was feeling? And how you don't know which one is the mind, and which one is the strength?

Let me know what you think!