Title: Edge: Part 4
Author: hermitknut
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: PG at the moment, might become PG-13 or even 15 at a later date.
Warnings: Slash (duh).
Summary: King Uther is dead; Long Live King Arthur! But it's not quite that simple. The interregnum – the time between the death of one king and the coronation of the next – is proving to be more complex than it would seem. Two old friends return; but have the last five years changed one of them beyond repair?
Disclaimer: If it were mine… Merlin and Arthur would make out in almost every episode :D

A/N: This is the sequel to "Heads and Tales" [links to all chapters here]. You can probably make sense of this without reading that if you like. Reviews are awesome; the epilogue to this should be up in a day or two. HK

The morning had risen and the night had begun to fall and Merlin had not yet returned. Arthur was not concerned for his safety – it had used to take him the better part of half a day to reach the clearing they had formerly met in, and the druid's camp was undoubtedly further in the other direction. Arthur had not needed telling where Merlin had gone. Instead he paced about the castle. Two days, two days until his coronation. He'd been measured for his robes, and fitted for them, and there was nothing left for him to do. Everything was on hold; everyone was waiting.

Arthur waited for Merlin.

Merlin was half an hour's ride away from Camelot when his vision started to flicker and he flung his sense as far ahead as he could. Among all the familiar, mundane citizens, guards and knights came a sharp, black slice. A well-known fear.

Mordred.

Arthur's spacious chambers seemed cramped and confined as he wore down the flagstones with his feet. With Merlin present it had always somehow felt more open, as though the sorcerer's very presence had brought a fresh breeze with it. But now he was not there, and the air was thick and dull and nothing moved save for Arthur, only pausing occasionally to glance out of the window.

The hooves of Merlin's horse clattered on the cobblestones of the lower town as he raced through the streets. The few guards who tried to stop him were spelled out of his way – not harmed, merely unconscious – Merlin had no time to explain himself. If Mordred was here in Camelot, then he would be heading for Arthur.

Arthur had retired to his bed early when, unable to sleep, he heard the door swing open a crack. He was about to turn over, frowning, to ascertain the intruder's identity; but he found that he could not. Instead, there was a whisper in his mind; or perhaps whisper was not the right word, as it was more a feeling than anything else.

Sleep, it said. Be still. He fought it, but it began to overwhelm him; a sleep like water, suffocating, drowning… and then the soft pad of small feet approaching the bed.

Arthur felt his thoughts fuzz and blur together, images of wide, cold eyes, of figures drowned in the well, of the tiny druid boy… he was sinking, and not attempting to swim. There was no need. Sinking was the only thing he could feel.

His downward progress continued and he lost track of everything outside of his own mind. Some small part of him, however, still burning with fury under the smothering liquid, heard the bang of the door and a familiar voice, shouting.

"Arthur!"

That was his name, Arthur. Not a bad name, as names go. Not very exciting. Not like some of the other names around. Gwaine was reasonable, Leon fairly strong-sounding, and Lancelot frankly ridiculous, and as for Merlin –

Merlin. That was Merlin's voice. Merlin was calling for him.

That thought lit a spark in his sluggish brain, and he struggled towards it. Merlin.

"Arthur!"

Merlin.

"Arthur! Arthur, please!"

Merlin. Merlin, I'm coming,

"Arthur!"

"Merlin?" his voice was croaky as he warily opened his eyes, hitting the real world again with some pain but an overwhelming sense of relief.

"Arthur!" he heard again, and then felt a familiar hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Merlin, looking as young as he had his first day in Camelot, tears streaking down his face, staring at him desperately. Arthur reached up to touch the side of his face and smiled.

"Am I really that awful to look at?" he tried. But Merlin just stared at him, and as Arthur pulled himself upright in bed Merlin sank down onto the mattress, his thin frame shaking. Arthur pulled him into his arms, not knowing what to say. He tried the soothing nothings he had heard from his nurse as a child; all 'there there's and 'hush's, but nothing he said seemed to sink in. All Merlin did was stare straight ahead and shake as the tears ran silently.

A few minutes passed quietly.

"Jethar," Merlin said softly. Arthur frowned.

"What?" he asked. Merlin gave a tiny quirk of the lips, but not a real smile.

"Who, not what," he replied. "Jethar, my friend, he…"

Arthur had to fight the rising anger he felt as Merlin quietly explained what had happened. How dare anyone make Merlin feel like this? How could anyone who professed to be a friend to Merlin, Merlin of all people, ever even contemplate…

Instead of ranting, Arthur merely held Merlin a little tighter.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into Merlin's dark hair. Merlin pulled away slightly to meet Arthur's eyes.

"Don't be," he said. "I don't want you to be sorry."

Arthur could not prevent the smile at that.

"What do you want me to be, then?" he asked, his tone light but his eyes serious. When Merlin answered, his voice was honest.

"Just Arthur."

Fortunately for many people, Lancelot was the first to call on the king-to-be the next morning. Upon receiving no answer, he checked up and down the corridor before quietly edging the door open enough to look through. What he saw, he never spoke of to another soul.

Arthur and Merlin were coiled together on the bed, Merlin's head on Arthur's chest, Arthur's arm sprawled across Merlin protectively. Lancelot smiled before slipping the door closed again and resolving to wait at the end of the corridor to delay anyone thinking to disturb Arthur that morning.