If Arthur hadn't already know what he was seeking, he might have mistaken Merlin for a pile of dirty clothes abandoned in the moonlight.
The king slipped and nearly fell in his haste to reach his friend. The three knights behind Arthur heard his cry of joy and sped up their pace, pouring out of the door in a pile of chain-mail-covered legs and arms. They quickly spread out defensively, swords high. Surely if this were a trap, now would be the time they would be attacked -
But the night remained empty. The only sound was the wind.
It was Arthur who turned to Merlin first. His triumph at his successful quest quickly turned cold and still at the sight of what was left of Merlin.
The warlock's face was an empty, dead grey. His eyes were deeply sunken under heavy lids. His hands lay long and limp against the stones. There was blood everywhere, smeared on Merlin's face and fingers and coating the side of his tunic. He rasped when he breathed.
But...he breathed.
He breathed.
"He lives! We are not too late!" called Arthur, in a voice that would not lose its shake. He felt emotions swirling in him out of control - relief, pride, fear, hope, dread, despair...
With a focused effort he made his voice steady this time. "Quickly, we must get him to the horses."
It was Gwaine and Elyan who quickly bound Merlin's wound. It was Arthur who carried the limp Merlin down three flights of stairs. Arthur's face was drawn and grim as he moved between watching over his knights and keeping an eye out for any possible foes, for that very real possibility of a magical attack.
And yet, none came.
It was truly night, now. The full moon granted them some sweet bluish light among the shadows.
It was decided that the safest place for the warlock to ride in haste would be in front of another rider. Gwaine volunteered for the first shift, and they bound Merlin to him with strips of leather. Gwaine placed an arm around his friend, and signaled his horse. As swiftly as they could, they began the long climb up out of the valley.
Gwaine held Merlin tightly, his face tight with worry. His friend was so still, so limp...He had not been been so concerned about Merlin since the day the warlock had lost a battle with the Dorocha.
He survived that night, Gwaine told himself. The only man to *ever* survive an attack from the Dorocha. He will recover from this, too. He *will.*
Gwaine was not doing a very good job of convincing himself.
The knight urged his horse faster, and he prayed.
An hour later they stopped to give Gwaine's aching arms a rest. Leon took the next shift, gently cradling the friend he'd known for longer than any other knight but Arthur.
An hour after that, it was Arthur who chose to carry Merlin home.
Not once in their journey did they encounter any living creature, magical or not. The world was asleep around them.
Exhaustion crept nearer to Arthur as the miles past. He had slept badly, and had been riding hard for the better part of nearly five hours. It seemed as if he rode in a dream. He held his friend close and tried to stay focused, to stay alert...
He did not feel himself again until he heard his horse's hooves clattering in the main square of the citadel.
Gaius, Percival, and Gwen came running out to meet them. Their faces shone with joy as they spied Merlin in the prince's arms - then fell as they realized he was indeed as wounded as they had seen so many hours ago.
Merlin was gently lowered from Arthur's horse into Percival's arms. "Careful," Arthur murmured, as he cradled the warlock's head.
Percival turned and carried Merlin into the Court Physician's chambers, Arthur following on his heels.
They lay him down on Gaius's bed in the main room. Gaius and Gwen had worked hard through the afternoon and evening preparing for their patient; there were bandages, warm water, and many bottles of herbs at the ready.
Gaius' expression was stern as he removed the makeshift bandages. When they had been removed he looked hard at the oozing wound beneath.
"I'd say an arrow wound," he declared quietly. "Two days old from the look of it. I can't believe he survived that long. Gwen, pass me those yellow bottles. Arthur, grab that wet cloth and wipe his brow. He's got a fever, of course; let's try to keep him cool."