Hi! Here's the next chapter:
Quick note to reviewer Jane Mays: They may seem a bit OOC, but in my opinion, Merlin wouldn't attack Arthur much, just try to get away because if he did it would waste all his work. If it were Uthur or Morgana, yes he would fight, but he is trying to protect Arthur and has seen him at his best and worst.
I shudder, groggily trying to sit up.
"Wait," a voice says, and I hear the owner get up. I freeze, recognizing the voice. Footsteps come closer and closer. I cringe when they reach me, keeping as still as I can. Hands gently grab me from behind, moving my arms to the front and adjusting my sling and the blankets underneath me. They prop me up, helping me to sit.
"There you go," Confusing was showing on my face, why was he helping me? Why was I still alive? He comes back around to my front, adjusts my blanket, and plops down on the log in front of me.
"Why are you—" I try to say, but my voice comes out hoarse. I clear my throat and try again, "Why are you doing this?" He looks hurt, but understanding, something I thought I'd never see Arthur look like.
He looks down. "I, um, I regret my actions recently," Is he trying to say sorry? Why was he apologizing? He coughs slightly. "I should have gotten the full story before attacking you," He must think he made a mistake, that I'm not a warlock.
"You weren't wrong," he looks up, surprised to hear me speak.
Sounds echo from where Merlin lies. He starts to move, trying to sit up.
"Wait," I call, hurrying to help him. He tenses, immediately stopping. I cringe, that was a mistake. I walk over there, and help him as gently as I can. I wait till he's sitting, mostly staying up thanks to a bedroll, before I go around him. I snatch his blanket from his lap and spread it on him, tucking it in under his arms. I go to sit, staring at his face. He's scared and confused, shaking, cowering on the ground.
"Why are you—" he coughs, evidently unable to speak. I'm about to get him some water when he continues, "Why are you doing this?" I suck in air, feeling as though I was punched in the gut. My fault, how could I have done this? I look down, trying to cover my face. I must look like I hate him, when really the loathing on my face is all for myself.
"I, um," I can't think of what to say, "I regret my actions recently," That came out wrong. It sounds like something I'd tell a courtier in front of my father after doing something out of place. "I should have gotten the full story before attacking you," That doesn't sound much better.
"You weren't wrong," he says and my head jerks up. He looks like he wants to swallow those words back, "I did that," He cringes again, waiting for a blow that would never come, that I wouldn't allow to come.