Wow, this story is turning into an absolute beast! I initially estimated it would be around 20k words maximum, yet here it is, passing that figure, and it's still really only half way done!? Phew! Anyway, we've finally reached the second day of our boys' journey, and there'll be some familiar bits of dialogue during the second half of the story that I've obviously taken straight from the show. Once again, I thank you all for following, and for leaving me such wonderful words of encouragement. I'm seriously humbled and... floored... by the response.
I still don't own Merlin. *sighs sadly*
A nagging ache in his chest slowly brought Arthur back to consciousness, and it took a few moments for the king to remember where he was. He couldn't recall ever having had such a peaceful night's rest, and had awoken expecting to be lying in his comfortable bed with Guinevere in his arms. He was strangely reluctant to open his eyes; he somehow knew that when he did, the nagging ache would become a deep pain.
Something was teasing at his memory, something that had prodded and poked at his mind even as he was sleeping. He couldn't remember dreaming, but he had flashes of... something... replaying through his head; images of Merlin, of all people. Why on earth had thoughts of his manservant plagued him throughout the night? The king found himself rolling his eyes, and the action forced his eyelids open.
His vision was a little blurred, but not so hazy that he didn't immediately see that he definitely wasn't in his own bed. His gaze sharpened, and the campfire a few feet away came into focus. There was little more than a flame or two left, having obviously burned itself out during the night. Arthur found himself sorry to see it go, though he wasn't exactly sure why. It wasn't as if he'd ever mourned the loss of a fire before. Feeling a sudden sense of unease, the king shifted his eyes and immediately found his gaze settling upon the sleeping form of his manservant.
Everything came rushing back with startling force, words and images pounding through his head so quickly that the king was dizzied by it; dragons, fire, magic...
Merlin had magic. Merlin had powerful magic. Even as memory returned, Arthur felt the stinging pain in chest sharpen, and the full weight of knowledge crashed over him as the past two days caught up with him. He was wounded, probably mortally so. Mordred's eyes, so filled with betrayal, hate, and a hint of unfathomable regret, flashed before him, and the king felt a fresh burst of disbelief that his former friend had dealt him such a deathly blow. Arthur was no where nearer to understanding how things could have come to this point than he was before, and even now felt the warring feelings of triumph and remorse that had coursed through him when he'd swiftly and mercilessly ended the young knight's life.
He knew he must have passed out on the battlefield, and he knew that somehow his manservant had found him and removed him to safety. When he'd awoken, he'd been surprised, yet unsurprised at the sight of the raven-haired man before him. Questions had buzzed through his head like irritating flies; questions about the outcome of the battle, questions about his knights and how they had fared; questions about whether his queen had managed to escape without injury. But instead of these questions, Arthur had blurted out the one thing that had been haunting him ever since the moment Merlin had regretfully informed him that he wouldn't be accompanying his king during the most important battle in Camelot's history.
"Where have you been?"
Even now, Arthur wondered where his friend had disappeared to, though he was no closer to getting an answer right at this very moment than he'd been before. Merlin was sleeping, and Arthur had no intention of disturbing him. The creases of concern that marred the pale features of his friend pulled at the king's heart, and Arthur again grimly noted the dark shadows beneath Merlin's eyes. The blonde forgot about his own injury – brushed it aside – as he absorbed the inescapable truth that he'd only guessed at before; Merlin was suffering, and had been suffering for an immeasurable length of time.
And the suffering was all for him. He still didn't fully understand the hows or the whys of it all, but when Merlin had released that incredible ball of light, Arthur had known with certainty that he and his servant were inexplicably linked, and that nothing would ever change that. It was strange how little this disturbed him; even just a few days ago, this would have embarrassed him beyond words. He was Arthur Pendragon, after all; a mighty warrior. But now, everything had changed, and it was all because of his idiotic, fool of a manservant.
Arthur had always known his friend was brave, and he had always known that he was probably his most loyal servant, but it was becoming increasingly clearer that Merlin had done many things – things that Arthur couldn't even begin to guess at – over the years solely to protect the king's life, and the blonde acknowledged to himself that he would never be able to repay even a smallest amount of what he owed his friend.
"Idiot," he whispered fondly.
The ache in his chest was now becoming harder to ignore, but Arthur was still reluctant to disturb his friend. Despite his pain, he wanted to allow Merlin as much rest as possible; his friend looked exhausted, and it was the very least that Arthur could do.
The king shifted his weight and bit his lips to stifle a gasp of pain. Slowly, carefully, he used his elbows to push himself up slightly, enough so that he could take some of the pressure from his chest. His new position allowed him to see his friend fully, and he frowned. Something wasn't right about the way Merlin was positioned; in fact, Arthur couldn't see how anyone could sleep in such a pose. His servant's head was twisted awkwardly, and his legs were strangely bent. It dawned on the king that this was the way someone looked after a fainting spell; this wasn't someone who had settled gently into slumber, this was someone who had simply collapsed.
The king's first instinct was to check for injury, and his eyes frantically searched his friend for any visible sign that would indicate any wounds. There was nothing to suggest anything untoward; no conspicuous arrows poking out from his friend, no tell-tale blood. He flicked his gaze to his servant's chest, and was relieved to note that it was moving deeply and evenly. He was simply asleep.
As the relief poured through him, the king suddenly realised that Excalibur was clasped in his hand, and he blinked in confusion. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that he hadn't been holding his sword when he'd passed out, so how the hell was he holding it now? The blonde looked at his hand with bewilderment, and he realised that even while his friend had been in the midst of losing consciousness, his primary concern had been for his king.
Merlin's hand was still resting protectively over Arthur's fingers, keeping the sword firmly in place.
"Idiot," he said again, an unexpected moistness pooling his eyes.
It was a revelation to observe his friend as he slowly blinked to wakefulness a few minutes later. Arthur lowered his gaze so as not to alert the servant of his stare, and Arthur was able to freely watch as Merlin's eyes fluttered softly, and then moistened his lips. His friend yawned widely and turned his head to the king; Arthur forced himself to appear as calm as possible, not wanting his friend to realise he was awake. He closed his eyes fully, and heard his servant expel a tiny breath. The king felt a slight, but thoroughly reassuring pressure on his hand, then heard the unmistakable sounds of Merlin scrambling to his feet. He almost chuckled when the man muttered a curse under his breath, picturing his friend tripping over probably nothing more than his own feet.
He waited a minute or so, and opened his eyes a fraction; Merlin was busy by the campfire, which was now burning brightly again. His servant was currently stirring the cooking pot absent-mindedly, while his eyes were scanning the sky above. His friend was obviously worried about the time, and Arthur sighed as he realised he couldn't pretend to be sleeping any longer. Laying Excalibur down, he used his arms to push himself up, and couldn't disguise the inevitable cry that escaped his lips.
"Arthur!"
His servant hastily dropped the spoon and rushed to the king's side, his face filled with a mixture of fear and nervousness.
"You alright?" he asked.
The king grimaced.
"I'd love to say I was fine, but it... hurts. A lot."
Merlin immediately dropped to his knees and lifted his hands, but Arthur swatted them away impatiently. His servant recoiled, and Arthur inwardly cursed.
"I don't think it will be wise to ease it," he said gently, to the obvious astonishment of his friend.
"Why? I can help; you know I can."
"I know. But you sent me into oblivion when you eased it last night, and I can't afford to let that happen again, not if I want to get back on a horse. Besides, the pain is good; it lets me know that I'm still alive."
The sorcerer was clearly doubtful of his king's words, and was quick to try and poke holes into Arthur's logic.
"Surely the ride ahead of us will be easier on you if you are able to do it more comfortably," he said firmly. "There's really no need for you to be suffering like this, my lord."
"No, Merlin. Let me keeps my wits about me, please," he said gently.
"At least let me look," said the servant stubbornly. He closed his eyes and flushed, obviously reluctant to admit what he was thinking. "Let me... see. Where the blade fragment is. We need to know how close it is to your... heart."
Arthur blew out a long breath. Once again, it wasn't the words that had been said by his friend that ran through the blonde's mind, it was the words that Merlin were keeping to himself; the words that so clearly said they needed to find out how much time was left before Mordred's killing blow led to its inevitable conclusion.
"Alright," the king conceded. "But none of that blazing light stuff, you understand?"
"Blazing light stuff?" said his servant, eyebrows raised.
"You know what I mean," said Arthur sternly. "Just check the damned fragment, Merlin, and leave it at that."
Merlin visibly held back any further arguments, perhaps understanding that this was a battle of wills he was never going to win. He nodded grudgingly, and raised his hands over Arthur's chest. The king watched the face before him closely, observing the way the gold gently replaced the blue of the sorcerer's eyes, and the way the dark-haired man frowned with deep concentration. After a moment or two, his face relaxed slightly, but his friend still looked anxious as his eyes resumed their blueness, and he pulled his arms back to his sides.
"Well?" asked Arthur, trying to sound bracing, but knowing he'd failed abysmally. His friend met the king's eyes, his head imperceptibly moving side to side as he clearly measured his words.
"We have time," he said eventually. "But we should probably get moving soon. I'll get everything ready, and get you some food before we leave."
Arthur didn't reply, as his friend was already on his feet and setting about the tasks he had given himself. The king shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aware of the rather pressing urge that that been present ever since he'd woken up.
Damn, he really needed to pee.
The blonde managed to twist his body around so that he could relieve himself a little more privately.
"Arthur, what are you doing?"
"Damn it, Merlin, can't a man even pee in peace when you're around?"
Arthur hadn't meant to sound so angry, but the pain had multiplied by at least a thousand in his estimation, and it was difficult to control what came out of his mouth.
His friend flushed, and mumbled an apology as he turned his back. By the time Arthur settled back on his bedroll, he was filled with utter agony, and it was taking all of his strength not to call back his earlier words and beg his friend to help him after all. The only thing that stopped him was the knowledge that this was possibly going to be his last day of life, and he wanted – no, needed, damn it – to stay awake for it. No matter how much it cost him. He was filled with a determination to know as much as he possibly could about his friend, and to do his best to somehow make amends for his undoubtedly numerous failings.
Unfortunately, the pain made it nigh on impossible to speak without an edge to his voice, so when Merlin approached him with a steaming bowl of stew, he couldn't help the frustration that fairly screamed behind his words.
Merlin, the sorcerer – probably the most powerful sorcerer ever, according to Gaius – was performing yet another menial duty that was ridiculously beneath him. The man was a damn Dragon Lord, for crying out loud. Why on earth was he so infuriatingly humble?
"This will be good for you," the idiot mumbled. "You need to eat."
"Why are you doing this?" the king burst out. "Why are you still behaving like a servant?" Why are you so bloody humble?
The sorcerer set the bowl to one side, and his face became infused with what Arthur could only describe as peace.
"It's my destiny," the servant said softly. "As it has been since the day we met."
"I tried to take your head off with a mace," said the king without thought, immediately recalling the cheek of his friend, which had, even then, impressed him far more than it had annoyed him. His friend smiled impishly.
"And I stopped you, using magic."
"You cheated!" said Arthur, humour lacing his accusation.
"You were going to kill me."
"I should have."
His friend lost his look of mischief, and Arthur saw the increasingly familiar wisdom return to his eyes.
"I'm glad you didn't. I do this because of who you are; without you, Camelot's nothing."
Arthur's humour faded under a cloud of pain and disillusionment; he suspected he was far from being responsible for Camelot's greatness.
"There was a time when that was true," he said quietly. "Not now. There are many who could fill the crown." Guinevere; Leon; any number of my knights. Even you, my friend.
"There will never be another like you, Arthur," Merlin stated firmly. Arthur felt a small smile pull at his lips. Foolish idiot, he thought, as his servant picked up the bowl again.
"Now, I also do this because you're my friend, and I don't want to lose you," said Merlin quietly, love, loyalty, and irrefutable truth ringing in his words.
The king found himself opening his mouth automatically in order to take a spoonful of fragrant stew. Once again, he was speechless. He'd been awed by the power of the sorcerer during the battle at Camlann, and had been repeatedly stunned in the days since by every single thing that his friend had revealed. Every time he discovered something new about the servant, he was convinced it was impossible to become any more shocked.
He was so very wrong.
The awe he felt at the moment was almost enough to stop his heart, and he realised that it wasn't the magic that stunned him; it had nothing to do with any of the things that Merlin had done over the years. Dragons, fire, magic... it was none of these awe-inspiring details. It was the little things that, had Arthur been standing, would have brought him to his knees. The unwavering affection; the selflessness, and the incredible way that his friend put Arthur first, time and time again.
The most powerful thing about Merlin wasn't his magic at all. It was his heart.
