Fear crossed his face as the boy steeled himself to look down again. Maybe he'd been mistaken.
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CHAPTER 2
No.
No, he had not been mistaken.
As Arthur charged off into the brush, unawares, Merlin sucked the cooling air around him through clenched teeth.
One of his trembling hands carefully touched his side.
Shirt already darkening, Merlin could feel hot blood running down his side, down his leg. Soaking into the thin fabric of his pants. He gently prodded again, unable to pull away—as if running one's tongue over a sore tooth.
As seconds ticked by Merlin's initial surprise began to clear. The pain grew. And grew. Hotter and hotter. The blade seemed to burn. His breath was coming in short painful gasps now, every movement a scorching, stabbing, poker.
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Prince Arthur's faithful manservant swayed, as the last of the sun sank.
In a wink, the sun blinked out.
Funny that, how something so beautiful, so powerful, could be in the world one moment and gone the next.
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Merlin toppled to his knees with a grimace and a grunt. The jolt caused such a stab of pain, the boy visibly paled. Eyes closed, the blood drained from his face as water from a dish pan. With one hand pressed around the hilt of the knife, Merlin's other hand found the forest floor; just keeping him up.
From his ungraceful hand-and-knees position, Merlin could hear only his gasping breaths and the tap tap tap of blood—his blood—pattering onto the new fallen leaves. His grimace would have been a smirk in any other situation—as he realized that he never had been able to keep quiet in the forest. Even his blood was loud.
Tap tap tap.
Tap tap tap tap tap.
The sound of his own breath and the pattering of his life's blood reverberated back to Merlin's ears, just inches from the damp and close ground. Louder and louder. His head was spinning as it did after too much ale. For a moment he almost saw himself, lying on his narrow bed after a night in the tavern with Gwaine and Lancelot, head spinning and stomach protesting.
Merlin knew he had to open his eyes.
He wasn't in his bed, and toppling over was not likely to be helpful in the present situation. As Merlin forced his eyes open, he tried for one deep breath only to find himself grunting out a curse.
Gods!
That hurt.
He knew he was badly injured. Likely bloody dying with his sodding luck. They were at least an hour from the castle. No one would expect them back anytime soon. The only other people they'd seen all day were either dead or run off. And he also knew their few medical supplies were long gone (with Arthur's rabbit).
But what Merlin knew most clearly was that he was terrible at healing spells. Truly terrible.
Nonetheless, the ashen, panting, shaking warlock tried one—lips moving almost silently.
His dark eyes flickered with a shard of gold and…nothing.
Just the tap tap tap of those fat heavy drops. Like dripping leaves after a spring shower.
Merlin hung his head and was surprised to see how fast those drops—running down the knife's hilt before leaping to the ground—had added up to a rivulet of blood; running over the leaf litter into the small dent his right knee had made.
One more time.
Merlin knew valuable seconds were racing by. He had to try the spell again and bore down—eyes flashing. The effort only managed to increase both his pain and the tapping blood. His blood.
'Wonderful', Merlin thought with a sharp gasp, 'faster, bigger, better bleeding.' He almost could have laughed.
Almost.
No more than a few moments had passed since Merlin turned to the woman (traitorous, thieving goat!) and already he was confusingly dizzy. Elbow buckling, he was perilously close to further impaling himself. Slipping, Merlin rested on his knees, his right elbow and forearm across the solid ground below him. His forehead, dotted with beads of cold sweat, grazed the damp ground.
He tried to breathe slowly through his nose. Calmly.
For an instant, Merlin smelled leaves. Just leaves. And it was lovely. That autumn aroma that reminds one of crisp nights and hearty stews. Time spent at the hearth with a book. Russet and yellow and warm.
But over that hopeful and promising smell hung the tang of death. The smell of red. Of cold. Of the grave. Merlin slammed his eyes shut and retched, barely holding his last meal down. Like a dog with a shard of bone caught in its throat.
The sounds, the smell, the vertigo, the pain…they were overwhelming. The boy retched again.
His dripping blood hastened, quickly becoming a thin, frightful stream.
Gritting his teeth, Merlin willed himself to stay conscious, hand digging into the ground for purchase. It helped the dizziness and Merlin clawed the ground again and again.
Then, he felt himself calming. Pounding heart and laboured breaths slowing a little.
A little more.
As his forehead came to a rest on the cool damp leaves, Merlin mused that this might be as good a way to die as any.
Merlin'd always thought autumn a better time to pass than spring—best have enjoyed Camelot's summer than suffered her winter. But he hoped Arthur would get back. Would get back…in time.
Then, like a wish fulfilled, Merlin saw motion.
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Arthur.
He saw Arthur. The prince—a swirl of colour and sound—was sheathing of his sword.
"Merlin?" he called.
Through ringing ears, Merlin heard the beginnings of worry at the tip of his name…he sensed Arthur's head turn towards him.
"Merlin!" Arthur's voice was sharp, concerned.
Merlin heard the rapid footfalls. Not quite running, but near so.
Arthur's manservant was gasping now, barely holding himself up. In the back of Merlin's mind, behind the woozy thoughts about leaves, and fall, and stew by a fire, Merlin knew how this was to end. Barring a bloody miracle, he was going to die and Arthur was going to watch. With a sob Merlin wrenched the blade from his gut.
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to be continued.
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