4.
As he's lying there on his back, looking up, all he can think is that the forest is beautiful.
Arthur is struck by how very little he has seen of nature in his lifetime. When he was younger, he would accompany his father to resorts with green grass covering vast lawns, tall, beautiful hedges with leaves and sweetly smelling flowers, and even a forest full of tall, graceful trees. He never realised how far it was from reality, and how far the serenity of that garden was from a real forest, and real beauty. Real grass, it seems, grows wildly in tussocks on a bumpy landscape, with paths twisting through it that are seemingly random and almost invisible, part of the ground itself rather than neatly laid down on top with tiles and gravel. Real flowers are not huge and impressive and fragrant, they are small, beautiful, fragile things that poke their heads out from unexpected places, white or yellow stars appearing in between the grass and straw. Some places the ground is covered with them, the path being the only part of the landscape not littered with bright petal crowns. And trees, oh, the trees. They are not straight, ordered and elegant. They are wild and unruly, veering off in odd directions, leaning on each other or twisting into odd shapes and deformations as a result of a winter with heavy snow, or as a trick in the everlasting competition to gain the most sunlight. Some trees have fallen, thin ones, overgrown with moss, forming hazards in the middle of the path because you might not see it and subsequently trip, or thicker ones, some with a diameter close to one of Arthur's thighs, very visible as their roots poke up from the ground, spreading far wider than he would have thought necessary. But then, the soil is not as rich as it used to be. In a real forest, dead trees are allowed to stay standing until they fall like this, or sag together and collapse in on themselves with rot, or bend and lean on the younger, stronger generation.
Since the act of resistance in the vicinity of Camelot has picked up, Arthur Pendragon has met many people he would never expect to befriend. He has met magicians, druids, workmen, hunters. His father, or perhaps it was one of his friends, would on occasion arrange a shooting of birds, but they would be birds that professionals had already killed, reanimated by engineers to fly only within a set area. Easy targets that were thrown away when the fun was over. Here, hunting is difficult, and the reward is food. Here, birds are free, and they sing. There's one sat on the branch of a birch tree at this very moment, chirping, before it spreads its wings and flies off, quickly exiting Arthur's field of vision. He would turn his head, but his neck doesn't agree. Actually, it's fine. The view from here is compelling enough.
His head is surrounded by grass, and a couple of flowers also peer down at him. It's a nice place to be lying down, he can feel the clothes on his back soaking with water and mud and probably blood as well, but he is far beyond caring. The flowers are so beautiful close up, their petals are torn and uneven and they are realer than anything else in the world. A branch that has somehow been torn off a tree is towering over him, obscuring the right side of his peripheral vision. From that to one of the flowers, an abandoned spider's web stretches. It is filled with drops of water sparkling in the sunlight, an awe-inspiring sight and a result of the same rain that is seeping into his own trainers. His throat does something that is the closest he can come to laughing as he remembers Merlin bending to study a web almost as littered with mosquitoes as this one is with water droplets.
"Now then, Mr. Spider, you seem to be doing great. Oh, look, a few mechanical ones, too! Well done on defying the enemy reconnaissance there, comrade. Keep up the good work."
Arthur wasn't very familiar with the workings of magic at that point, so he was impressed that Merlin could talk to spiders, on top of everything else. And Merlin had laughed, the sound so heavenly that Arthur forgot to be annoyed or embarrassed that he had made himself look stupid, choosing instead to be thrilled that he'd made Merlin happy.
"I can talk to spiders," Merlin said, and kissed him, "But I'm afraid they don't understand any of it at all. They certainly never answer."
Just the memory makes Arthur smile drowsily. The ground he is lying on is soft, well, to the extent that he can feel it, and he doesn't think he'd mind falling asleep here, with Merlin on his mind. Merlin, who is blissfully safe. He was so worried for a moment, when it all seemed to be going wrong, getting out of hand, when the enemy appeared. The people he had once considered his brothers i arms. He feared for everything then, for the people he was with, for the mission that was interrupted, for the safety of their cause, but mostly Merlin. He can never stop worrying about that damned man. Well, he isn't so worried now. Now, the danger is over, and he can relax into the soft grass, watching the treetops sway above, let the smile linger on his face as he feels a mosquito, a real one, not a camera, saunter across his cheek. He just can't bring himself to lift an arm and swat it away. The sky is so blue. It's almost unbelievable. He has never seen a more beautiful day.
Drops of water rain down on him as a tree is shaken by an approaching movement. He can see Merlin's face now, and it's not just in his mind's eye anymore. Merlin is really there, his Merlin, safe and real and unharmed. The only thing more beautiful than what he was already seeing. The face above him looks so worried, so upset, and he wants to tell him to relax, everything is fine now. But something tells him not to waste energy on the words. He is tired. Merlin is saying something, and Arthur realises it's his name, over and over. It is a bit difficult to hear, the peaceful silence and the rustling of the breeze seem to deafen everything else. Merlin's hands stroke his face as his lips read "Arthur, Arthur," as if he cannot remember any other words. His face is so full of emotions that Arthur finds it difficult to make sense of it, and his eyes seem moist with tears. Arthur smiles again, and Merlin's face makes an odd convulsion, almost like sob, though there is nothing to be sobbing about.
Arthur draws his breath, and he can feel the air as it enters, feel all its movements down to his lungs, and he presses it out again, forming words, hoping they will be audible even though he himself seems to have lost the ability to hear.
"I love you," he chokes out, and that exertion proves great enough to drain him. He is still smiling as darkness envelops him.