u/13266539/

2.13

Read profile or hit the back button. I basically mark everything as mature just in case.

First break is for POV change. Takes place after the death of Balinor and right before Arthur goes to face Kilgharrah.

"No man is worth your tears."

In his head, Merlin knew Arthur was trying — in his ridiculously stunted Arthur-way — to comfort him. He knew. Even so, the words rang as hollow as Merlin's chest already felt.

"I'm not a knight, Arthur," he said while trying on a fake smile that didn't fit and pulling away a bit in his mind. Just enough. "That man saved my life. The blow that killed him was meant for me. I watched him die. That's not nothing."

Arthur's face fell, fair eyebrows creeping together.

"Merlin, that's not what I —"

"I know, it's fine," Merlin said, shoving as much sincerity into the lie as he could despite a frost of numbness blessedly stealing over his heart.

Shrugging, because nonchalance was easy when that space between himself and the rest of the world was there, Merlin pushed past the prince and picked up the other sword on the table, inspecting the blade. Now wasn't the time for feelings about his father. It wasn't the time for feelings at all. He needed to face the repercussions of his actions. Enough had suffered for his choices and he was done. Merlin began this mess and Merlin would end it.

"What are you doing?" Arthur demanded.

"I'm coming with you."

—Φ—

"Well, at least you've got your sense of humor back!" the prince said as he headed toward the door.

When Merlin followed, face serious and walk determined, Arthur stopped. He took in his servant from head to toe. Was he actually going to do this? What was wrong with him? He should be staying here, where it was moderately safer, helping Gaius with patients. Not marching out, one manservant among a dozen knights and a prince, to face death at the talons of a dragon.

"Are you really going to face this dragon with me?"

Somehow, as the younger man turned to him with eyes like sunlit sea, Arthur already knew what the response would amount to. He wasn't wrong.

"Well, I'm not going to watch you do it alone, am I?" Merlin said with a laugh that sounded forced. His eyes left Arthur's. "You'll do it wrong and I'll have to clean it all up anyhow."

Still, although the saying of it was flippant and insolent as all Merlin's sayings were, the weight of it was not. That weight slammed into Arthur's belly and up through his chest as if he'd been run through right there in his chambers.

He could say no, refuse to allow Merlin to come. It would not go well and the younger man would never actually listen but Arthur could say it anyway; order it and make it an official command. And yet. Taken hold of Merlin's face was a look Arthur had seen before — on other men. Bigger men, stronger men. Men who had seen things Merlin had likely never seen. The expression did not even seem discordant to Merlin's usually jovial and laughing face, which was something Arthur would never have imagined to be the case. Somehow, this was Merlin, too. This man with a jaw set hard like a wall in front of something painful and resolute. Arthur would not say no to such a man. On that decision, the weight of what Merlin was doing transformed from a stabbing thing to a settling warm thing above his stomach.

The Crown Prince rode out with a servant at his right hand instead of at the back where he should have been. It felt right — was right — despite the odd looks. Every other man riding was brave and selfless and willing to sacrifice themselves to honor their oaths and vows. Merlin had said it himself; he was not a knight. Merlin was beholden to no oaths or vows. Still he rode.

Arthur wanted very much to pretend he did not know why Merlin was taking this stand. At the inn, before all this, Arthur had said that because he was a prince they could not be friends. His statement was true. They could not be. So they had become something else. Something Arthur did not know the name of but knew the depth of. Something that caused a wretched, selfish, and terrible sensation of comfort from the thought of Merlin at his side. If Arthur died this night, as he was certain he would unless a miracle happened, he would at least not do so without the raven haired man near him. Sickly sweet satisfaction that could not be considered virtuous or upright by any standard bled within Arthur like a wound.

Disappointed in himself, Arthur swallowed hard and refused to let his eyes wander to Merlin beside him. He could not indulge in thought unless it was about the grave task at hand, so he hurled all else away from him as they rode and managed to keep a clear head as they faced the dragon. It started raining on the way.

—Φ—

Arthur had always felt when the timing was just right; it was a sensation that seemed to come from the bones of his shoulderblades. He trusted it and doing so had never failed him. Not in a battle he had any hope of winning, at least. It came to him whether he could win or not, for it wasn't about victory but chance. That it came to him, seeping from his back, as he stared up at the hulking beast before him was another exhibition of that fact.

"Now!" he yelled.

The knights moved to the plan made for them, disciplined and well trained.

It was for naught. A dragon was a dragon, after all.

They stood barely a full minute's count before Arthur was thrown from his horse and his knights burned on the other side of the clearing. Arthur fought against the panic and fear trying to claw its way up his spine as he rose to his feet. His hand ached from his sword being wrenched away at an odd angle and he checked himself to ensure his body and armor were still able to fight: both were wet and muddy but serviceable.

Darting a look over the clearing, his stomach sunk. Even in the dark of deepening twilight he saw the barrenness of his situation. No mobile knights, horses scared off, sword who-knew-where. He shook himself and grit his teeth, sucking in a breath that brought water into his mouth from the rain. His thoughts, of course, soared straight where they did not belong.

Merlin was not on the other side of the clearing, thank the gods. Yet, that meant he was on Arthur's side and in the same wretched boat. Arthur swallowed and prepared himself before searching for his manservant. Arthur found him standing behind him a ways and to the side, huddled in on himself and staring up at the dragon with bleak horror and sword precarious in his hands. Arthur pressed his lips into a line. How was he going to protect Merlin now? The stupid, idiot manservant who insisted on coming and standing with his prince without having any experience or skill in battle.

The manservant whom Arthur had allowed to come. Fault lay not with loyal Merlin but with his selfish prince and Arthur's jaw ached from clenching his teeth.

As the dragon turned to them, finished with belching its fire out over the pitiable knights, Arthur cast about for a weapon and picked up the one nearest him. Hefting the lance in his hand, he stood and braced it against his body as he'd been taught since youth. He dragged his mind away from the fear within to focus only on the actions he could take. A prince acted for his people; he did not get lost in his own head.

The dragon stalked closer and paused in front of him. Merlin shifted wetly in the mud somewhere to the side and behind him and Arthur could hear the younger man's voice through the rain.

"No, please. Please, Kilgharrah —"

Anything else was cut off when Arthur had to dive sideways to avoid the stream of flame coming at him. When he landed, he immediately sought Merlin and saw him knocked to the ground, weapon gone. Moving fast enough to make his body vehemently protest, Arthur leapt to his feet and aimed where the dragon's leg met its breast. Driving the lance in as hard as he could, he stood firm to keep the blade where it was until the beast reared back with a bellow and lashed out.

Arthur was sent flying from the blow and hit the ground square on his back, hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

He tried to shake it off and push himself up — he needed to be sure the dragon was defeated and try again if it was not — but his body did not respond. Limbs refused to move when he strained to do so, as if they were numb or trapped by a great weight. Too numb to move yet he could still feel water slip through his armor and mail. Panic surged through him again at the thought of who was left alone to face the dragon. Merlin; weaponless now and untrained. Arthur opened his mouth to scream at his servant to run but there was no sound to it, his lips did not even move. All the thoughts that plagued him before, ones which had been driven away, returned with vengeance.

Arthur had failed.

His people and his king; all doomed now. He had failed as a prince. He had failed as a knight. And he had failed as a master by allowing his manservant to be exposed to such danger. He had left Merlin alone to face a beast Arthur himself had been unable to conquer and Arthur knew without a doubt that Merlin would face it. Merlin would try and save Arthur, the blond knew it as he knew there was blood beneath his cold skin.

He tried again to move but it was futile. There was nothing he was struggling against, no pressure holding him down. Inside him, Arthur's guts felt like they were vibrating with dread and panic and horror. The only explanation Arthur could think of for his immobility was the fall must have injured his spine. If only it had stricken him deaf as well.

He did not want to have to hear Merlin's dying screams, to listen as he was burnt or eaten alive. Arthur's heart thumped like a galloping horse in his chest at the images crossing his closed eyes, his skin became too hot to feel the icy pricks of rain on his face or the clammy sludge soaking through to his back. He prayed the dragon would realize Arthur was alive and finish him so he would not have to live through Merlin's demise. Stomach churning with hot nausea, Arthur squeezed his eyes shut against it for if he did vomit, his inability to move would have him likely choking on it.

A dragon's roared tore through the night.

As the roar faded and became a yell, though, Arthur realized it was not from the beast's throat but from Merlin's. Merlin who began speaking with words Arthur had never heard and Arthur's breath stuttered in his lungs at the sound.

Who was this? Who was this speaking to a dragon in sounds that could only be dragon-tongue? It sounded nothing like bubbly, gregarious Merlin. Arthur's head spun and he instinctively tried to move his arms to correct a balance he did not have, then inhaled sharply when his hand moved ever so slightly.

A rush of vindication swept him, sleek and rich, as he quickly reassessed his physical state. Perhaps it was just a shock that had held him down. Perhaps he could get up, defeat this creature, and get Merlin to safety. Arthur could do this. He could push through this. Steeling himself, he braced his muscles for a great effort. Then was promptly interrupted.

"I am the last dragon," the dragon said in the language Arthur knew. "Do not make me responsible for the extinction of my kind, Merlin, whatever my sins may be."

Arthur was frozen. The dragon could speak. The dragon knew Merlin by name. Arthur became dizzy once again and a sound came from the dragon that did not sound like an attack but a surprise.

"Then go!" Merlin shouted with a thick voice. "Leave! If you attack Camelot again, Kilgharrah, know that I will end you! The mercy I show you today, I command you show to others."

"Young warlock," the dragon said.

Anything that followed, Arthur did not hear because his head was a hurricane of denial and knowledge and pain.

A dragon's roar in the chest of his servant.

Drake-speech in his mouth.

Familiarity between man and creature.

The whisper in rain of the name 'Kilgharrah'.

Commands and threats from a station of authority.

A title. An address too casual to be anything but truth. A truth that tilted the world.

No.

Arthur's eyes grew hot and his nose tingled; sudden and shocking. He tried very hard to repeat the words he had told Merlin less than an hour ago: no man is worth your tears. Yet, the agony in his heart did not cease but grew until Arthur was biting his lip and clenching his fists to keep from yelling.

No.

The image of a golden chain being snapped taut unfurled in his mind and he gasped as a pressure came upon his head like a helmet of lead. Tighter and tighter the golden chain was pulled until Arthur thought it was certain to break and that thought somehow made the pressure worse. He panted for breath and groaned — senses overloaded by pressure and the chain vision and sorrow and the way his head swam.

Cool hands touched him; one behind his neck and the other on his arm. It felt good against his hot skin but it also cleared his mind enough for Arthur to know who it was and he jerked away, relieved he now had enough control over his body to manage it.

Young warlock.

Young warlock.

It was all he could think; a terrifying mantra that repeated over and over.

"Arthur, stop, stop. It's me," Merlin said urgently, as if that would somehow make anything right.

With his body aching and a horrible ripping sensation in his chest, Arthur pushed himself to sit up. Merlin's arms came around him, helping, but Arthur couldn't take it. Biting down the scream that wanted to escape, he shoved Merlin away and leaned forward to put his head in his hands.

"Arthur? Arthur, what's wrong?"

Merlin was so concerned, so sincere. It was so unutterably painful.

"We need to get you to Gaius, come —"

"Young warlock."

For a long time, no sound came to Arthur's ears but the rain.

"Wh-what? Who?"

The tone tried for casual confusion but Arthur heard the tightness in it, a stretched quality he had heard before. Gods above had he heard it before, though only now did it make sense.

"Did you hit your head?"

Arthur looked up at his manservant. The one who washed his clothes and got his dinner and cleaned his armor and helped him bathe and gave him smiles and companionship. The one who was not what he said he was. The one who was hiding. The one who was lying. The young warlock.

"The dragon called you young warlock," Arthur stated in a voice as flat as his heart felt. "You spoke to it, Merlin. In it's own tongue. It knew your name."

Pieces fell together in his head as he said those last words and formed a picture that made Arthur feel he was at the bottom of a well.

"You set it free."

There was a span of time where Merlin's face made an expression that Arthur was afraid would turn into a smile and an awful, unbelievable excuse. Instead, something seemed to go out of Merlin and he slouched where he sat in sodden grass. The normally genial and beatific face went blank and Arthur hated it; hated the nothingness. He closed his eyes

"Yes."

The sound was so soft, so quiet, that it was barely discernible but it sent shivers down Arthur's back nonetheless. Good gods, he'd admitted it. It was true. A cold spread through Arthur that had very little to do with the fact that they were out in the rain in the dark.

"I'd sworn an oath in return for his help defeating the Knights of Medhir."

In an instant, that cold was warring with the hot fury that rose in Arthur. Fury about the truth; about what it meant. About the lives that had been lost due to Merlin's oath to a dragon. About what had to be done now.

The golden chain flashed in his mind, sending another pulse of heavy ache through him and he winced hard.

"Seventy-six people are dead, Merlin," he snarled. "Eighteen women and children are missing. I don't even know how many of my knights still live. You did this."

"No!" cried Merlin. "I'd never have released him if I knew he was going to attack Camelot. You know I wouldn't. If it weren't for Kilgharrah, Morgause would have won and you —"

"That does not excuse what you have done!" shouted Arthur.

Anger was familiar; comfortable. He knew how to act with anger, knew how to wear it properly.

"I know it doesn't," Merlin admitted. "But which is worse? Seventy-six or the fall of Albion?"

"That choice is not for you to make," Arthur said with warning in his tone.

"I wish I hadn't had to."

Arthur knew what he meant; Merlin had been alone to make that choice. All alone because of his secret, his lie. The knowledge only made Arthur set his jaw harder.

Young warlock.

"When?" he grated out.

"What?"

"When did you learn sorcery, Merlin!"

"I didn't."

Arthur raised his head and stared. Staring didn't help, though; it only made him feel worse. Watching the earnest eyes shining out from a wet mop of hair black as crows wings and knowing that this man had been lying to Arthur even as they'd forged the connection they now shared — it made him feel as if an eel slithered through his insides. It made him cold. Made him want to scream and scream and scream.

"It is far past the time for lies, young warlock."

Merlin flinched at the address and shifted. His movement made Arthur tense up and send him a cautionary glare, making Merlin go still. The gaze that met Arthur's had no right to be so sorrowful, no right to appear the way Arthur himself felt. Like something was breaking inside.

"It is, yes. That's why I'm...not lying. I was born with magic."

A scoff left Arthur's mouth and he shook his head. Was the younger man really trying to weave tales now? After admitting to what he already had?

"Merlin, no one is born —"

"Golden eyes since the moment they opened," Merlin intoned as if repeating something from a book. "My birth made the ground shake and lightning struck all over the village."

It was the way he said it that caught Arthur; the melancholy and the rote of it. Like it had been recited more than a hundred times, as the Knight's Code had been instilled into Arthur. No pride was in the words.

"That's not possible."

"My mother was dying, bleeding. The tears in her womb healed themselves when her hands touched me. When I opened my eyes in her arms, the shaking and the lightning stopped. She knew what it meant. What the color meant."

Arthur had no words, no sounds to make. Babies didn't open their eyes at birth. Not normal ones. Ones who didn't have gold hiding behind their eyelids. Those same eyes, river-blue and disarming, held Arthur's as Merlin went on.

"She sent the midwives away before they could get a good look at me. Wouldn't let anyone touch me. Took me to the druids, scared. They helped her understand what was happening, what I was."

"You told me none of this," Arthur accused bitterly, the words thick and difficult to say. "Not one word, all this time."

"Magic means death in Camelot."

There it was, said out loud, coming down like a war-hammer between them. Inside his mind, the gold chain creaked with strain and it made his whole frame throb with ache. Arthur's breath caught in his throat and he blinked rapidly to contain his outward reaction, finally breaking eye contact. It was wrong. Something was. The chain knew. Arthur knew. This, obviously. It was all wrong.

"Yet, you came here. Knowing it was treason to your king."

"No, it's not," said Merlin simply.

Furrowing his brows, Arthur turned his head back to his manservant. To the young warlock.

"How is it not?"

"He isn't the king I swear fealty to, Arthur," the young warlock stated with hard adamance. "You are."

Arthur felt his eyes go wide and his pulse gave a burst of speed. Every muscle tensed and he had to consciously make them relax again. Heat crept up his neck and ears and Arthur was glad it was too dark for Merlin to make out. Another flash of the golden chain with no ache, this time, just a gentle ebbing of pressure that felt almost like waves lapping at a shore. The links chimed like bells in his mind. This awful day was not the first time the gold chain had appeared to him. It was, however, the first time it was accompanied by sound or sensation of any kind. Did it mean something?

"That...that alone is treason," Arthur managed to get out.

"Not against your father. I was born in Essetir."

"Hardly the point," Arthur snapped, irate.

"Then what is?"

"I can't trust you anymore!"

He heard Merlin sucking in a breath, the sound wet and making Arthur shut his eyes against it.

Trust should not be the point, should not be the cause of Arthur's anger. Treason should be the point, going against the law and the king should be the point. Having magic should be the point. Arthur hated so much that the words he just spoke were the actual truth.

Merlin had been trusted, and not the way Arthur trusted his knights or his peers. It was an easy and comfortable trust that went unspoken because trust so deep did not need words to make it real. Arthur was simply and only himself with Merlin because that trust was there, trust of acceptance and of solace. When they were together Arthur began to want things for himself; began to have faith that his ideas and thoughts were right and had merit. Their trust was a barrier between the Crown Prince and Arthur, a barrier that let his soul breathe. Trusting Merlin let Arthur trust himself.

Or it had been. Was that gone now? Had it ever existed? Was it a lie? A ruse? His insides twisted and Arthur growled against the tickling in his nose and eyes.

"I'm no different than I was half a candle-mark ago."

The comment made Arthur so angry he had to take his gloves off just to have something to throw on the ground. Because it wasn't true. Everything was different now. Every memory was different. It had to be. Nothing else made sense.

"I don't know that," he spat, staring at the gloves where they had landed between his knees. "I don't know what you've used your magic for."

"Yes, you do."

And Merlin was right, though not totally. It was not a stretch to imagine what Merlin would use his abilities for. There was evidence. The man was still a servant, still poor, still mistreated by many, and the bodies of all who irritated him were not littering the castle floor.

But Arthur didn't want to know. He didn't want to think about it; about how no other explanation fit. Magic was not good. It was…. No. Magic was outlawed. It was outlawed because it was wrong. He clung to that thought like a shipwrecked man to a rock in a storm but on it, his hands had begun to slip.

Too many narrow misses. Dozens of close calls. Handfuls of near-death experiences. Victories won during blackouts. Hundreds of coincidences. Friends suddenly healed. Wounds surprisingly better upon waking. Probably millions of lucky incidents. All making it possible for Arthur to sit where he was, on the ground in the rain. Memories of moments twirling in his head. With Merlin.

Young warlock.

"This doesn't change the law."

"The law is wrong," Merlin stated instantly, voice like steel and out of place from his slender throat.

"I cannot lie to my father, Merlin."

When did that become the issue?

"So, you've told him about Guin, then? And about the jousting competition? Or is lying not the problem at all?"

The steel became bitterness and Merlin pierced Arthur with almost goading eyes.

"Do you think I should die because I have magic, Arthur? Because I was born different from you?"

The bitterness became belligerent challenge, much like the sort from their first meeting.

"If you do, then kill me. Right now. Kill me yourself, Arthur Pendragon, because I won't let anyone else."

Despite the pain tearing through his chest and the gold chain stretching across his vision like an angry serpent, Arthur's rage won out.

Launching to his feet with a battle cry full of anger and hurt and spiralling sorrow, he grabbed the lance next to him and whirled to bear it against the warlock, its blade still red with dragon's blood.

Merlin was a picture of grim defiance. Never had Arthur seen him so poised and strong. Head high, shoulders square, and eyes fierce enough to kill with a glance — he looked like royalty. Those eyes burned with blue fire and were locked onto Arthur's own. That Merlin was on his knees soaking wet only made the sight more profound.

Arthur's breath came hard and it was beyond any difficulty he had ever faced before that very moment to stand there, keeping the weapon levelled at Merlin.

"All I have ever done," Merlin said in the same manner one would utter a prayer. "All I will ever do. Is protect you."

Arthur wanted to scream until his throat bled but instead he let out a strangled sound between a growl and a shout as the lance shook in his hands.

"Why!"

Merlin's expression broke into one so full of longing and sincerity that Arthur didn't want to see it and yet he could not look away. He gazed at Merlin as if it would give him all the answers in the world because he needed answers right now. With every fibre of his being, he needed to know.

"Because, Arthur," Merlin breathed. Again like he was speaking to a deity. "I'm yo—"

"You're what? My friend?" Arthur interrupted with a scoff, half because it was ridiculous and half because he thought something in him would shatter if Merlin said it out loud.

The man on his knees only looked at Arthur and shook his head slightly.

"No, Arthur. Just yours."

The lance tumbled from Arthur's hands as he fell to his knees, shaking his head and gasping because it felt like his ribcage was being pulled out of his skin. Sounds of metal against metal reached his ears but it felt like something out of his imagination. A large part of him wanted to reach out for Merlin but Arthur didn't allow it; didn't dare. He didn't know what it would mean or what it would do to him so he covered his face with his hands instead. His heart was raw and his mind was wasted battlefield.

If everything Merlin had said were true then he was more powerful than any sorcerer Arthur had heard of. Humans were not born with magic. Seers were born with their curse...gift? Ability. But they did not control it; it was as a chronic illness or a dog bite. Still dangerous but not quite as heinous. Heinous. Heinous? Is that what it was? A gift? A heinous thing? Was Arthur's chain of the same ilk? He had not seen it for long, only after Merlin had arrived in Camelot. Was it magic? Was it...heinous?

Arthur kept his hands firmly where they were, as if to grasp a moment to himself to process what was happening. Merlin was not heinous. But such power…. If Merlin were a Dragonlord — which he must be or he could not have spoken to the dragon in its own tongue — then he was both a sorcerer and a Dragonlord together. He could have anything he wanted, any title, any land, any treasure. That power was a corruption. It was too much for any mortal to bear and not tar the soul of that who did. Yet it had not corrupted Merlin…. Had it?

It wasn't possible for Merlin to be so stupid as to not be able to manage usurping power from all around him, otherwise Merlin would never have been able to keep his secret this long. That power which should have corrupted Merlin. Should have twisted him into a monster and not a manservant. Arthur's manservant.

So why? Why stay a servant? Why Arthur? Why the devotion? Arthur was not fool enough to believe he had earned it. Something small and fragile in him tugged and yanked in too many different ways until his anger washed away to be replaced with a yearning, singular and taut, for something he did not know.

"Why, Merlin?"

He would not admit that his voice was as tumbling as an autumn leaf falling to the ground. Or that he was too afraid to look up at the young warlock. The Dragonlord sorcerer. His manservant. His something. But precisely because he was afraid to, Arthur forced himself to. Merlin's petal soft smile made him want to avert his eyes but he would not. His chest fluttered at the sight.

"I believe in you, Arthur. You are the destiny I have chosen."

It was as if someone had poured liquid sunlight into Arthur's body, filling it to the brim. Strength and energy undulated within him — more than he felt his flesh could handle — and he was suddenly in motion, could not stop, and surprised at his own speed. Then his arms were full of Merlin, crushing the smaller form to himself. The only thing resonating through his head was that he had been chosen.

This Dragonlord sorcerer…. No. It was less than that but also much more; this man. Merlin. Merlin had chosen Arthur above all others. Not the prince, not the crown, not the Pendragon line, not Camelot, nor the king. Arthur. Someone who knew every fault, every mistake, every blemish, had chosen him and the golden chain flitting across his mind glowed like molten fire. Every part of him felt full and aligned.

"I don't think you should die," Arthur rasped against dark hair, trying to steady the shivering in his lungs and limbs. "Merlin, I don't. I can't."

Merlin began to tremble and Arthur realized he was crying, the slim body relaxing to the point of melting. Arthur clutched the other man like he himself were drowning and Merlin his anchor. Arthur had not initiated a hug with anyone outside his family even once. He knew he was not an affectionate man but that aversion was now nowhere to be found. Did this qualify as a hug? Hands pressed at his armor, dug his chainmail into his skin, and Arthur could feel the difference between cold rain and hot tears on his neck. He tightened his arms around Merlin as the slighter form continued to shake and felt no awkwardness or trepidation in it.

"I thought-I-I thought," Merlin managed haltingly. "You-the lance-I. That you were really-really goi—"

"No," Arthur interrupted frantically, then firmly. "No. I should never have pointed a weapon at you like that. Never again, Merlin. Never, I swear it. I swear it on my life."

The response was for Merlin to squeeze him and whisper Arthur's name into his shoulder.

They stayed like that for a good while, spinning out of control with the sharp and heady release of relief, until the groaning of one of the knights near them broke the eggshell-atmosphere.

Whatever horses they could find were loaded with the bodies of knights, living and dead, and walked back toward the castle. Merlin stayed within a hands-breadth of Arthur the whole way, as if afraid he would disappear. Arthur let him and paused when their pace put them too far apart.

Guin came to him as they entered the city, ready to embrace him, but there was an amiss quality to it after what happened in the field. He held her at arms length and told her he was glad for her safety and her service to Gaius. She was confused but graceful as always and helped them lead the body-draped horses through tattered streets. They did not speak and he was grateful for that.

Only after the knights were released into Gaius' care and Arthur had been tended to by the physician did he allow himself to glance over to the dark haired man standing near him. They were both exhausted and would very soon be of no use to anyone and with the realization he found himself unwilling to send Merlin away. A selfish and greedy feeling, but with the aura which laced itself around the two of them even now, he felt no guilt. Arthur informed Merlin he would be sleeping in the antechamber off Arthur's room that night and had to catch the younger man when his knees gave way. The smile Merlin sent him was delicate, quivering, and so heavy with grateful meaning that Arthur turned his eyes to the floor to escape it.