[December 13th, 2013]

"Planning more raids?"

Arthur could pretend the bitterness in Merlin's voice doesn't eat at him, but what good would that do? He's not in the habit of lying to himself… or to Merlin, unless he has to, because that's also a bit like lying to himself. The idea tickles at his insides, and while he doesn't laugh, it's a near thing, and maybe he's not quite as in control of his emotions as he'd like to be: he tosses the paper in his hand down onto the desk with more force than is necessary, and, not surprisingly, it catches on the air and flutters to the side of his desk, quivering for a moment before stuttering into stillness. Obviously, the paper is flimsy: good paper—really well made paper—wouldn't shiver like that. That shouldn't annoy him, but, for whatever reason, it does.

Not that he'll show it: he gathers the paper back into his hand on a matter of principle alone.

"Hardly," he drawls, leveling his gaze up from his desk to meet Merlin's eyes as he tidies the papers and lays them back on the desk more properly this time. "Trying to ensure that food distribution runs smoothly. There was some trouble last week. Supplies didn't get where they needed to be. I'm personally ensuring that won't happen this time."

You'd think that was a crime, what with the way Merlin tosses his head sourly and turns away, back toward the window. It's even raining out. Blasted weather sides with Merlin now: the backdrop of rainy England gives him a nice scene for his misery—and Merlin has certainly cranked that up. From the moment they'd entered this office, he's rebuffed all attempts at amicable conversation and instead made himself nice and comfortable—or not, because he refuses to sit—staring out the window at the soaked city streets below.

God only knows why he has Merlin here with him in the first place.

Good sense would dictate that Arthur not let Merlin into his office. And, yet, here they are in the large room in Arthur's apartment that's designated for whatever professional tasks that don't require him to be elsewhere. It's not exactly working from home—not in the traditional, feet up on the couch while he goes over things with the drone of the telly in the background—when there's a fully equipped office in his home, but it does at least make him feel less like a work-a-holic than when he stays overnight at the offices he took over at Downing Street after the Prime Minister was killed.

That sense of relative leisure is probably only superficial, though: he can run things as well from here as he can from anywhere. Thus, given the current circumstances, he can see no reason to leave: bringing Merlin here with him is more feasible than bringing him anywhere else.

Unfortunately, Merlin hardly seems to appreciate it. He's grown increasingly more reticent the longer they've been in this office. For the first hour or so, he'd at least managed to badger Arthur, insult him, even threaten him at some points. After time stretched on, though, and all Merlin had received for his effort was either silence or a even-tempered—not how Arthur feels, but he's not going to worsen the situation by proving Merlin right—reply, he'd given up and presumably decided that silence would be just as cutting.

The thing is, he's right. He's undeniably right, and how much more infuriating can Merlin possibly get? There's a reproach in his ramrod straight spine, an insult in the stiff set of his shoulders, and no doubt a bitter question in his silence. For the last half hour, he simply stood at the window, watching who-knows-what, while Arthur did his best to double check his figures.

Back in Camelot, Merlin would have done that for him. He always checked Arthur's figures.

Offering that again is foolish, but that niggling memory—it pushes Arthur into it, not so much for Merlin as for himself. Is it so wrong to want what he had? "If you wanted, you could help me with that. Surely making certain that people are fed isn't a violation of whatever moral code you're following?"

Merlin scowls, though it's a bit hard to make out when only his profile is in view. "No. But helping you is."

Nice. If Arthur didn't know better, an attitude like that might lead him to believe that Merlin isn't routinely woken by nightmares of Arthur's death. He can't quite hold back an eye roll at the thought: Merlin is rather more convincing in his malice at midday when he's not desperately listening for Arthur's heartbeat, just for the reassurance that it brings.

Fine then. Just fine. It's not like he hasn't been privy to Merlin's moods before. "I'll be sure to let anyone who doesn't receive their share of rations know that."

There's satisfaction to be had in how Merlin's face contorts, pinching, but it's not nearly enough. This isn't working. Arthur knows it isn't working.

Grimacing, he tosses his pen to the side, paying little heed when it clatters noisily over the desktop before rolling to a stop. He doesn't bother to chase after it and put it to rights, but instead opts to push his papers away and lean back in his chair, lifting one leg and propping his ankle on his opposite knee. Then, folding his fingers together and tucking his hands over his stomach, he simply watches and waits.

He doesn't have to wait long.

Merlin's eyes had followed the course of the pen when Arthur had tossed it, and his gaze still hasn't left the pen's resting place, focusing on it, locking his gaze about a foot to Arthur's right. The way he's burning a hole with his stare, though—that's no pen he's seeing.

"You killed my father," Merlin says finally, eyes slipping closed.

Well, that's an interesting change of topic… and not one that's particularly favorable. "I didn't. Though, I can't say I liked Balinor much this time around."

Seems it takes an insult to someone else to get Merlin moving: annoying as that is, Arthur shifts in his chair, tensing—not quite calculating, but, yes, something close—as Merlin jerks away from the window and back toward Arthur. The movement is whipcord sharp, and his jaw tightens, angling all the lines of his face. It's nothing compared to the raw accusation in his gaze, though—the way he watches Arthur, waiting, like he thinks there's more to come. Arthur is already being judged for something he hasn't even done yet—he's tempted to just toss his head against the backrest of his chair and sit there, staring at the ceiling, maybe even shaking his head for good measure. That sense of this is not working? It's getting stronger. Actually, it feels decidedly like the beginnings of an ulcer by this point.

Still, he'll be damned if he gives up that easily. And, anyway, there are other things he can do—always are, if Merlin wants to play the situation like this.

"Why? Because he didn't fall in with what you wanted?" Merlin snarls.

That's a stupid question. Merlin certainly didn't fall in with what he wanted either, but it's not like Arthur hates him. "No. Because he did a piss poor job of taking care of you."

Merlin stares. Just blankly stares. Someone ought to shake him, but Arthur doesn't get up to do it—doesn't do anything beyond leaning forward again, settling for shaking his own head and wondering how the hell Merlin hasn't accepted that his father was incompetent and didn't do right by him.

Probably about the same way that he didn't see his own father's faults, Arthur has to admit, though it tightens something in his gut to even consider. At least Balinor didn't commit genocide.

For all his faults, though, Uther never neglected his son, and the notion that Merlin wasn't so lucky is enough to leave Arthur scrubbing a hand over his face in frustration. He saw the state of Merlin's house. He was the one who found ways to get Hunith a raise, who found Merlin government aid, who made anonymous donations that always managed to find their way to the Emrys' household. While Balinor was out nursing a pint, Arthur had been the one watching Merlin, ensuring he got the best teachers—slipping those teachers extra pay to take jobs at a school like Merlin's—finding ways to sack the fathers of those boys who had beaten Merlin up, making certain that said fathers would have to seek work elsewhere, in a place where their sons would no longer harm Merlin. And God only knows what went on after Merlin regained his memories—after he somehow convinced his parents, probably with the aid of magic, to run and start a life elsewhere, somewhere where Arthur couldn't find him—couldn't help.

No, it doesn't matter what reasons—good reasons—Balinor had for being like he was. Merlin deserved better.

Swallowing, Arthur takes a breath. "He probably would have done a terrible job caring for you back in Camelot too, judging by how he did this time around, but I can't prove that, I suppose."

No, he didn't need to add that. And, yes, Merlin probably has every right to look like he's imagining how Arthur will look with a nosebleed—not that Merlin tries to physically hit: oh, no, he does one better.

"What would you know about parenthood?" he snarls.

Arthur flattens his palms out on the desk. The wood is probably cold, but he can't feel it over the pounding heat of his heartbeat.

An accusation like that—it's cruel, and Merlin has to know it, even if he doesn't know on how many levels. Of course he means it as a shot at Arthur's failure to father an heir for Camelot, and that's stinging enough, but if he knew more, if he knew just who Mordred is this time around…

Only, maybe he does.

"What?" Merlin sneers, likely in response to whatever gobsmacked look Arthur is sporting. Arthur tries to wipe it clean, but the muscles of his face feel iced over, sluggish, like syrup too long in the cold. This kind of thing can't be hidden, it seems, at least not from the people who matter most. "What?" Merlin says again, face twisting harder, more anger than spite now, and he marches his way over to Arthur's desk, curling his fingers over the front edge and leaning in hard, digging nails into the surface. "You think I didn't know about Mordred?"

Breathe. He needs to breathe. He's never even had asthma, and this hitch in his breath—it's just pathetic. "Who told you?" he manages to bite out. If Merlin knows, who else knows? Because Morgana wouldn't tell. Not at the risk to Mordred. Never if it would hurt Mordred, and that means there's someone else with the knowledge….

A swift breath whistles out through Merlin's teeth, and he blinks, staring down at Arthur through dark lashes that are just a little too clumped to be entirely dry. He hasn't been crying, but his eyes are red as a crack addict's, sheened over with the gloss of tears that Merlin always sported when pushed to his limit. He's not crying, but it's a near thing. "Like hell, Arthur," he chokes out. "I won't tell you."

"Not Morgana, then."

"You killed my father, Arthur. And my mother—did you kill my mother? Where is she?!"

Dead. And that had been an accident. Not Arthur's doing. Though, Merlin no doubt thinks it is. Just a traffic accident, though. Nothing more. Just because Merlin ran at the hospital—never saw the body—he can't quite seem to accept that she's dead. He ought to. On some level he probably even does. But Arthur—he was the one who saw Hunith after she died. Arranged her funeral. Put flowers on her grave this year, when the one-year anniversary of her death rolled around. Hydrangeas. They'd looked lovely, though they'd probably died in the frost later that night.

"You know your mother is dead, Merlin."

"I know my father is dead. And I know you say my mother is too. But it wouldn't be the first time you lied to me."

"You want to talk about lies?"

No. Neither of them does. But the topic is a gauntlet, simple as that. And Merlin is the one who threw it down.

So Merlin damn well better fight back.

At first (and it comes as no surprise) he doesn't quite manage: the question sends Merlin staggering to a halt, and no, he has no right to look betrayed. Just because Arthur hasn't brought up that period of Merlin's deception for years doesn't mean it's erased. If it had been up to Arthur it would have been—he's forgiven Merlin long ago—but Merlin—he never quite forgave himself, and that means everything in a situation like this.

If they're hitting hard, then Arthur is damn well going to make sure he wins—make sure they only have to do this once. If that means knocking Merlin down roughly enough that he doesn't get right back up, that's what he'll do.

Necessity really can be a bitch sometimes. It's not like they both don't know that.

"No answer, Merlin?" he asks, shoving his chair back from the desk and rising to his feet. His can feel the spring in his legs, which is a bit unsettling; he always felt like this before a battle, and this—it's not as though he wants it to be a battle. He doesn't enjoy tearing into Merlin and breaking him down… and looking at the way Merlin's face twists, half rage and half bleeding hurt, he can't deny that he'd give a good deal not to need to go this route.

But Merlin drew first.

"No answer for me?" he asks again, eating up the distance between himself and Merlin with sure, measured steps.

Merlin jerks back, but his feet remain solidly in place, fighting the urge to retreat in the face of Arthur's advance. That's hardly shocking—Merlin so seldom runs if he can stand and fight. Half a room down and distance still closing between them, but he doesn't move, just lets Arthur come at him, braces himself, cocking his head to the side and tensing so hard he's almost shivering.

Everything narrows in when they're face to face, breathing each other's air. No doubt someone somewhere would find that poetic, but Merlin doesn't look much like he appreciates it. Arthur can feel his own hands clenching at his sides, and so he can't imagine he appreciates it much either. It's a bit hard to tell at the moment, honestly. Examining emotions and all that—not right now.

It's one step short of a brutal show and tell, in the sense that, you tell me something, and I'll show you why you're wrong until you tell me the truth and admit it to yourself as well. Only, no one is telling anything quite yet, and nothing seems real, even the feel of a fistful of Merlin's hair—just one snippet of a flash of angry white bared teeth before Arthur yanks Merlin in close, up against his chest where Merlin can feel him breathe if he wants—because, in some way, that matters to Arthur right now, and he knows it matters to Merlin, regardless of what Merlin says. Regardless of what Merlin does: a dull pain echoes in Arthur's side when Merlin grips him back, unforgiving, right under the ribs, but that's not an attempt to escape—it's just the kind of fight they've always had. Painful and raw, but close, so melded together, no suggestion of running: they'll fight it out as much inside themselves as they will against each other.

"I didn't kill your mother," Arthur murmurs, low and angry, right up against Merlin's ear.

Merlin's grip tightens.

"I swear to you, I didn't kill your mother," he repeats. "And you know my promises are worth something."

Worth Arthur's weight in something more valuable than gold, he'll say, because he doesn't promise. Almost never. He'll say that he'll do something, and if he says he will then he will, but a promise is beyond that. Merlin certainly knows that well enough. He'd know it better than anyone.

I don't believe you Merlin's touch screams, muffling out Arthur's counter: You lie, you lie, you lie. Merlin's free hand grips Arthur's other side; Merlin shoves. Hard. But he doesn't let go. More of a shake, then. That's going to be an impressive bruise tomorrow. But, then, Merlin's probably going to lose a chunk of hair if they keep this up. Tit for tat, then. They're always even.

"How did you know I was coming, Arthur?"

"How did you think I wouldn't find you?"

Another shake, punctuated by nails—cut your bloody nails, Merlin—digging up through Arthur's clothes, probably leaving neat little half-moon indents, shaded in messily with bruised purples and blacks. "It's my life, Arthur! I have a right to live it. You had no right—no right—"

How absurd. Merlin's just going to stand here, too skinny, too pale, drenched with weariness so heavy that it's pathetically obvious he hasn't had a good sleep in too long to remember, and he'll say that? Every right—Arthur has every right in the world when this is Merlin and life, the two things that have, it seems, always been bound together. "I have every right." And then, softer, because he's not angry in this—really, he's not— "When have I not taken care of you, Merlin?" Somehow, sometime, his hand has slipped out of Merlin's hair, dropping to his neck. His fingers ring the skin like a collar, but Merlin's gaze has shifted hazily, fuzzing out and then sharpening back in sporadically: he's not even noticing the hand on his neck, Arthur would be willing to bet.

And Arthur isn't squeezing.

"When you died," Merlin breathes. "You didn't take care of me when you bled out on the ground and left me to make a decision. And I made it. I did. I should have let you die." And then, more venomous, not really meant, but still said to sting, Arthur is sure: "I should have left like Gwen did."

Yes, and to hell with you too, Merlin.

Except, it's not as though Arthur means it.

Goodness, though, that comparison—it's really just the most absurd comparison Merlin could make. If he'd stopped to think about it at all, Merlin would have known that. Probably does anyway. That lack of thinking, though—it's as cutting as the words themselves. Merlin so seldom loses his temper—but this time, he has. It slipped free far enough to lash out, searing Arthur's skin like acid.

"Gwen could leave her husband, Merlin," Arthur hisses back, flexing his fingers, just enough to remind Merlin where they are. It doesn't draw more than a casual flicker of Merlin's eyes down toward Arthur's arm. I don't care that gaze says. Try it. And Arthur never will. "But you—you can't run out on your destiny."

So many people had it wrong, Arthur thinks as he stares Merlin down. Love for a spouse—for a lover—it runs deep, but sex is only something skin deep, organ deep at best. A matter of the heart. He loved Gwen—with a far hotter love than he had for Merlin. He would have died for her a thousand times over. But Merlin is a chunk of himself. An extension of himself. Merlin is the sort of love that isn't sex, but just damn well is in the sense that it runs too deeply to ever be pulled up or rooted out. Without Merlin, Arthur is not who he is. Gwen is sex and passion, but Merlin is the other side of his coin. He craves one, but he is not complete without the other. If he has to, he can live without Gwen. Merlin—that may not be the case with Merlin.

And Merlin feels the same. Arthur knows he does. Because he can feel him feeling it.

Merlin: only a half of the whole if he tries to leave, as miserable when alone as Arthur is. Destiny gave them each other in a bond deeper than anything someone not tied by the same forces could comprehend. It's not even the kind of union that can be broken. And that—Arthur laughs a little brokenly, just barely managing to swallow a mouthful of the sound before it slips out—that might be driving them both a little mad.

Gently, he loosens his grip even more. They don't mean it, these things they say. Neither of them does. They don't. Really, they don't.

I'm sorry… Or, I would be, if the fight were over. I'll be sorry then, I promise.

Why won't Merlin let it be over?

"Help me, Merlin," Arthur murmurs, low and about as close to an entreaty as he'll get. "Help me make this world what it should be."

One hitched, choked breath. "I already did."

"Then do it again."

And Merlin would like to, as much as he hates the idea: the pull is written in his face, in the strain of his jaw, in how he looks at Arthur and then, sobbing dryly, leans his head forward, down into Arthur's shoulder. The motion pushes his neck harder into Arthur's hand, but Arthur instinctively pulls back with Merlin's movement, taking care not to choke. He's only holding on, letting Merlin rest his head, listening to the whisper of soft curls next to his ear when Merlin shakes his head—no—over and over, mumbling something, a little insane.

"No."

Air—Arthur gulps for it, drawing it in until it burns his lungs. No, Merlin said. No. No, as in not yet. Nothing else will do, not for Arthur, and not for Merlin, even if he doesn't know it yet. He's practically burning a hole in Arthur's arms, and he's shaking, jittering in against Arthur's side like he's going to fall apart.

The idea of it—hell. Just… hell. It just… red splinters behind Arthur's eyes, cracking and shoving up into his mind until all his thoughts feel strangely shredded. Merlin—all this is killing him from the inside… though never any further. It never breaks down his body like it should. That'd be too kind: Merlin will never get that peace of a final rest any more than Arthur will, suffering be what it is. But no. Merlin won't suffer like this, like these jitters, like this ripping guilt that Arthur can feel jumping through Merlin in the skin under Arthur's fingers: Merlin just leans into him, hanging there, radiating hate, oozing need as sticky as blood. Arthur would know: he's got a mess of it on his hands, and it never washes off. It's not fair. Not any of it. And Merlin can't end it. He can't understand it well enough to end it, because he was never made for war like this.

No, instead Merlin was made for Arthur: made for a man who was made for war… and enough is enough. Merlin will not suffer when he doesn't need to. Not anymore.

Same as if he were chilled, Merlin keeps on shaking.

"Merlin—damn it, Merlin, it's going to be fine. Yeah?" A light shake, but Merlin hardly responds. "Hear me?" When did this shift from anger to… this? Somewhere between the ache in his own chest and the exhaustion in Merlin—it had changed somewhere in there. Exactly where doesn't matter so much. "It's all right."

Gentle, gentle, swaying back and forth, taking Merlin with him. He's still biting out words of anger into Arthur's shoulder, but he lets himself be held, in return half puncturing Arthur's flesh with the grip he's got. Bruises are just blood under the skin, though, right? But the blood is staying under the skin. That's something, at least.

"What do you want?" Arthur hears himself asking, hands gripping Merlin's too-skinny shoulders. If Merlin would just stop shaking…. "What do you want? I'll get it for you, all right? If it will make you happy again, I'll get it for you. But you have to tell me what you want."

A gun? A second chance to shoot Arthur? Right now, if that's what Merlin wanted, Arthur can't help but think he might give it to him.

Or he might rip at him, tear him down, take the options away entirely, because it's a blessed thing to have the freedom to blame someone else. And he could give that to Merlin if he took the options away. No choices, no guilt-if Merlin could have that….

Maybe that is what Merlin needs.

No, not maybe. It is.

How did he not see it before? Now that he's thought it, the idea seems to lurk in every corner of his body. Was it there all along? If it was, he hadn't felt it, and now it's poking its head out with a vengeance, burrowing its way out of his flesh and into his bloodstream until every area of his body is infused with it. He can feel it travel—and it feels good, rather similar to alcohol hitting his stomach and spreading its warmth through his limbs.

"You can't make this decision, hmm?" Arthur mutters, soft. He's trying for gentle. It'd be nice to think he's achieving it.

Merlin chokes. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you."

Arthur jostles him lightly, feels Merlin jerk against him. "I think you're a little insane, Merlin. You've been through too much."

More than a little insane, actually. And horribly conflicted. That, at least, is something Arthur is not: conflict wouldn't set him so firmly, wouldn't leaden his hand until it dipped the pen to the paper, signing every order, passing all those laws. Even now, he can sense that in his fingers—that tingling he gets right before he scrawls out his signature. He's changing lives. Keeping people safe. He's doing it the only way he can. Merlin will see. It just takes time.

For now, though, it's scary how blank Merlin's eyes look. He won't even meet Arthur's gaze. Really, it's almost a blessing when he squeezes his eyelids closed altogether, words still running off, dribbling out of his mouth, some of them in a language Arthur doesn't even understand. Merlin's still got his head tilted upward, away from Arthur, sending the vitriolic words up toward the ceiling.

Wouldn't it be nice if that were because he still just can't quite bear to say them right to Arthur?

If that's the reason, it can't be proved: a shaky breath, hitched, so badly that Arthur can feel the rattle of it in his own chest, even if it's from Merlin's lungs. And was that the tail end of a laugh? "Arthur," Merlin gasps, tossing his head back with the same limpness death drags out in people, "I think I'm—I don't think I quite—I don't trust my thoughts." And then, like he can't hold it in, he gasps, "Stop being something I have to fight." A harsh breath. "I can't keep at it."

Oh, and what that admission must have cost him. "All right. That's what you want." Carefully, he wraps his hand in the back of Merlin's shirt, just to steady him. "I understand. No more worries. I'll take care of it."

No man could fail to be just a bit insulted by the bitter laugh that spews out of Merlin's throat. Arthur has seen wyverns with more affection than Merlin shows in that laugh. There is certainly nothing gentle in how Merlin finally pulls back, pitching himself away from Arthur, stumbling, lurching—just barely catching himself on the wall.

And, yes… it's true, Merlin's not quite… right. He's sane. But this—it's an edge of sanity that shouldn't happen. The is too far out on the edge: as sane as a man can be when fighting destiny; when fighting someone he's tied to; when watching his friends rise and fall around him, never quite knowing who they are but trusting them anyway, because Merlin, as hard as it's pushing him towards breaking, could never do anything else.

Arthur should have seen this crease in Merlin's mind before. It was remiss of him. And now that crease is too close to tearing.

"You won't take care of it," Merlin accuses, chest heaving. He looks as though he's going to vomit. "You'll ruin it. All…" A gasp, "of it… all… every bit."

"Blame me, then. It's out of your hands. Remember that. I did it. Not you. So hate me for it. But not yourself. Can you be happy like that, Merlin? If you blame me and not yourself? If I give you that?"

Shakily, Merlin's mouth quivers, but he doesn't answer. It doesn't seem as though he really can. When his eyes flutter closed, Arthur stops expecting any answer at all.

Doesn't matter. He has his answer: that is what Merlin needs, isn't it? Arthur should have understood before. He'd thought… but, no, Merlin can't just join him in this. That isn't Merlin. It doesn't suit him. And Arthur—he'd been stupid not to see it. Stupid, stupid, stupid the beat of his blood reprimands him as he takes a step toward Merlin. He's been going about this the wrong way. He ought to know better. He certainly knows Merlin better—well enough that this isn't a mistake he should have made.

Lightly—just a whisper of a touch—he skims the pads of his fingers over Merlin's shirt, trying to draw him back in.

All that earns him is a sharp pivot, the slash of angry teeth in a scowl and a gritted growl. "Get away from me," Merlin snarls, batting Arthur's hand away. "Get—oh, hell—get out. You did this. All of it. I hate you. Get out."

Nearly two thousand or so years, and it seems Merlin's finally hit a wall he can't climb. The feeling rolls in Arthur's stomach: not a pleasant notion. This is what a breakdown looks like, isn't it? And he really can't do anything but let Merlin go about it. His eyes burn and his body aches, but he can't take this away from Merlin.

He'll fix it, though, now that he knows.

So much to fix. The stiff line of Merlin's body, taunt even as he curls his arms around himself, eyes squeezed shut into hyphens that draw together the separated parts of whatever he's thinking. They don't quite seem to make it, though, and so he cringes tighter, like if he pulls harder, he'll get there—will yank everything together and make it all right.

And then he goes to his knees… and just stops breathing. His chest heaves, but he won't open his mouth—shakes his head against the raw need of his body, even as his face reddens, crying for air.

God help him, he looks insane.

And that's enough.

"Only one more thing, Merlin," Arthur murmurs, soothingly, like he always was with his horses when they spooked. "I just need one more thing from you."

Really, when he darts forward and pulls Merlin to him, blocking off his mouth and his nose with a carefully placed hand, he's only helping Merlin with his earlier goal. That could be why Merlin doesn't fight it so much. No more than he was, anyway. His chest is still heaving, but it was doing that already. No biting, though—no clawing at Arthur's hand, like he can't stand to pass out from lack of breath. And when the darkness must finally be there, he doesn't fight it: he just pitches his head back against Arthur shoulder and honest-to-God smiles into Arthur's hand.

Then he slumps. Arthur does too. "Just one more thing," he whispers to Merlin. "And that thing won't be your fault. I promise. It'll be mine."