Arthur had never been a runner, not really. He was an excellent horseman and an even better fighter, but as his chain mail shuddered and dragged him down with every step he wished he had walked or run on a couple of hunting trips. The past few days had been the longest of his life. He thought to himself, pityingly, that he was running (goddammit, I'm too tired for puns like that) on a collective five hours of sleep for about three days, gathered between battles and toting Merlin around and now sprinting like his life depended on it (because Merlin's does).

I'm so tired.

More than once he had caught himself slowing

just for a little bit, just a few minutes, nobody has to know—

and then the image of Merlin would materialize, unbidden, in his head: lying, shivering, on the forest floor, crying out hideous broken sobs for help, or worse

stop

because it had been hours since he'd left him

stop it

and he could have gotten worse

stop it

and after everything Arthur had said to him

shut up.

He began to run faster.

Somehow, it was nighttime. Arthur had been drifting, practically asleep on his feet but still he ran. There was a coppery taste in his mouth but his tongue was too dry to swallow and his throat burned anyways. At some point he supposed he'd shed his armor because he was wearing only his tunic and pants, and they were soaked and he was aware of feeling cold and so he sped up again.

Time was passing in a strange and disconcerting haze. The space that the moon had been occupying only a moment ago was now encompassed with an impossibly bright sun, dancing in a dizzying line in the sky and sometimes there was more than one, like the trees which jumped confusingly in front of him and the roots which materialized beneath his feet. His knees pulsed angrily and scratches he didn't remember getting burned on his arms, his face, through foreign tears in his clothes. He blinked and the sun seemed to be lower than it ought to have been and then it was night again and Arthur sat up with a hoarse cry. He'd passed out. Hours might have passed, days, even, and panicked sobs forced their way up and out of his ragged throat as he scrambled to his feet and began to run again.

When the uneven forest floor gave way to hard-packed dirt Arthur didn't notice; even when he shambled past the confused palace guards, he didn't see them or hear their calls. He ran straight into Gaius's chambers and would have kept running if the old physician had not reached out and grabbed Arthur's shoulder.

"Arthur?" He asked incredulously as the guards caught up and spilled into the suddenly cramped room.

Arthur couldn't speak, his eyes roving wildly about the room apparently without sight.

"Arthur, where's Merlin? What happened?" There was a hard edge in Gaius's voice—disguised fear. He led the king towards his own cot and Arthur seemed to come around.

"Help," he croaked, and Gaius nodded knowingly.

"He's severely dehydrated and malnourished. He needs rest, and-"

"Merlin," Arthur shook his head frantically, pushing away arms that herded him towards the bed. "Please, he... help, he..."

"Where is he?" Gaius seemed to understand immediately, handing Arthur a cup of water. Gratefully he swallowed, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded rusty, but intelligible.

"Something happened. There was a dragon and it healed him, but something went wrong. I couldn't move him." Arthur's voice broke. "Oh, gods, Gaius, I think he might be dying."

"Can you take me to him?" Gaius kept his tone professional but faintly, Arthur heard it quiver. He nodded, and the physician began to pack a bag with books and herbs. His hands were shaking.

"I'm coming," Percival stepped forward, Leon sidling up next to him.

"Where's Gwaine?" Arthur asked slowly. It wasn't unlike the knight to be absent (figures, he's probably at the tavern) but the man seemed to have a sixth sense wherever Merlin was concerned. His question was met with silence, and he repeated it more forcefully. "Percival, where's Gwaine?"

Despite being the largest man in the room Percival looked pitifully small, unable to meet the king's eyes. "Morgana, she…"

Arthur closed his eyes, and he was thankful for the exhaustion he felt because otherwise the news of Gwaine's death would have been crushing. "We need to get going," he said finally, and their small party filed out of the physician's chambers and towards the stables.