He was floating, somewhere dark and cold. He felt the world moving around him, but couldn't get himself to push back against it. So he floated.
Then there was something hard but solid beneath him. A burst of pins and needles flared up throughout his body, making his head buzz. Something touched his arms, his forehead, his hair. It helped him fight against the lingering cold. At least, until the touches retreated. It took him an impossibly long time to realize that there were voices all around him, like his mind had been receiving information through a pool of molasses.
"—safe to move him? Camelot is still another day's ride."
"What else can we do? Only Gaius will know what's happening. Besides, he's burning unnaturally hot—you've felt it. Who knows how much more he can take?"
If he could feel his own face, he'd twist it up and tell the voices that he's actually freezing, that they've got it wrong. But that name, Gaius, brought him a burst of warmth, drawing out a sigh from somewhere within him.
"Merlin?" The hands returned, though they were more hesitant this time. "I can hardly touch him, Lance. How do we bring his fever down?"
"I'm not sure it even is a fever, sire."
"Then what can we do?"
The voices suddenly started to blend together around him, growing more and more indecipherable. He shut them out, sinking deeper into the darkness, even though it saddened him. He knew those voices, he was sure of it. They both brought him comfort, though in different ways he didn't quite understand. Not that he understood much of anything at the moment.
The next time he resurfaced, he still felt the pins and needles where the solid ground came up to meet him. Something soft was stroking him, wetting his face, but somehow it helped him combat the bone-deep cold lurking within, which confused him further for some reason.
"You saved my life again, Merlin," a voice whispered with surprising clarity near his ear. "You know, I still think about the day I found out about your magic whenever I look at you. That day you risked everything to protect me and Arthur from that griffin. I remember thinking—how is he so unafraid in a place like Camelot?" A sigh. "I suppose you have no room for fear in that big heart of yours."
And then he remembered Lancelot, quite suddenly. Mostly his kind smile, and the way he made Merlin feel safe, even after discovering his secret. His secret. Magic. What happened to it? He could feel it, even now, curling up within him as if seeking to make itself smaller. It ached in a way that was foreign, yet too familiar at the same time.
That was when he remembered the collar—that depraved thing that had ripped his magic from him for weeks, draining his life-force in the process. And now his magic felt crippled somehow. It was then that the memories of his enslavement invaded his mind, assaulting him with images and emotions that he lacked the strength to push away.
Caught ourselves a pretty one, haven't we?
We're going to have to break that rebellious spirit right out of him.
You belong to us now, boy.
"Merlin? Merlin, hey, calm down!"
Hands were on his arms again, but this time they made the ache in him spike instead of warming him.
"What's happening?" Merlin knew that voice, he longed to remember it.
"I think he's dreaming, but he won't wake—"
"Merlin," another set of hands on his face, "can you hear me? Merlin, it's alright, you're alright. I just need you to breathe."
Both sets of hands released him. Merlin vaguely wondered if he had pushed them off.
"Merlin, don't fight me. Please. It's me, it's Arthur. You're safe."
Arthur. Merlin remembered Arthur, of course he did. It came in a flash, infinite moments of mixed exasperation and fondness, fleeting touches carrying far more weight than they should, meaningful glances that sought to express what could never be spoken. A level of security and vulnerability that should hurt but instead it chased off the cold, if only for a little while.
"Sire, you shouldn't—he'll scorch you at this rate."
"Get some rest," Arthur said, in his usual evasive way. "You deserve it. I'll stay up with him."
Something warm and solid brushed up against Merlin's side and remained there. He turned towards it, towards what he figured was Arthur. He heard an indignant scoff.
"Always the girl."
Fingers brushed tentatively at the hair swept across Merlin's forehead. If the warlock wasn't already sinking back into the blackness, he might've laughed at the irony of it.