A/N: This is just a real quick drabble/ficlet, at Merlin watching over Arthur after he has been made king. In this Arthur knows that Merlin has magic. I hope you guys enjoy!
Vermillion
The sun's burnt red-orange glow washed through the room like liquid color, splashing against the walls and drenching everything in scarlet hue. It trickled over Arthur's skin in broad brushstrokes of fading light, and glowed like fire as it reflected in Merlin's eyes.
The warlock stood over the bed with his head bent, the lines of his neck and shoulders tense as he stared down at the bruised and bandaged blonde. His face was a map of hard lines; the angular planes sharpened to a cutting edge by his grim expression – no more the Jester than the Fool. The red glow of the setting sun made Arthur look like he was painted in stripes of blood.
It reminded Merlin of the battlefield. He recalled the feel of it swirling around him like its own entity that maimed, killed, and tore with an undiscerning eye. He'd felt it move against him like a surging tide, a current that battled with rage and passion, but none of it touched him.
He was protected. Arthur had been protected too.
But it'd only taken a moment's lapse in his vigilance for the king to fall, pierced by the points of his enemies' swords.
Merlin felt something within him snap and storm up from within - a beast with no direction that'd found its chain suddenly broken.
In a minute he'd leveled the field and buried those on it in his fury – friend and foe alike.
The warlock turned his head as if he could turn aside the memory.
Merlin raised his hand and snapped the curtains shut with a twist of his wrist, blanketing the room in darkness except for the golden glow of his eyes.
Nothing would ever hurt Arthur again.
The warlock sunk down onto the edge of the bed and smoothed his hand over Arthur's damp hair when the other man shifted restlessly, lines of pain stitched across his brow. His eyes fluttered then opened, blood-shot and clouded with fever. They drifted in and out of focus before Arthur's gaze wandered up to Merlin's own.
"Is it over?" he rasped, words no louder than the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. Merlin nodded and urged Arthur to drink a sip of water, which the king did with a grateful noise in the back of his throat.
"It is," he replied and his own voice cracked with splinters of tension and worry.
Arthur shifted and Merlin could feel the pain ripple beneath his fever-flushed skin as if he were experiencing it first hand. "Would you like me to make you a, err, sleep aid?" He hesitated when Arthur placed his clammy palm over his hand; though he'd accepted his magic where Uther had not, there were still moments of distrust.
"No," replied Arthur, a corners of his mouth drooping wearily even as pain flashed duly behind his eyes, "no. Just stay with me – as long as you're here I can sleep."
"I will never let anything happen to you again," he promised, but the look Arthur gives him, even gripped by fever and hurt, makes him feel like that clumsy boy who tripped over his own feet and couldn't shine a shoe to save his life.
"No Merlin," said Arthur as he closed his eyes, his voice barely pushing past his ashen lips, "I will unite this land so you won't have to. I will do this for you."
And the warlock found a smile for his king, whose breathing came smoothly as he settled into a somewhat peaceful sleep. For no matter how much power Merlin held Arthur's hand was the one that truly wielded it.