New fic: The Map of Honor, 1/2 (Merlin BBC, Arthur/Merlin)
The Map of Honor (1/2)
Arthur/Merlin, 12,700 words, canon-era, hurt/comfort, adult
Summary: Arthur sustains a mortal wound in battle, and makes preparations to accept his fate. Merlin has other ideas.
Warnings: none. Please note, there is no character death in this story.
Notes: Technically has spoilers through 4x03, but I tweaked the timeline on certain things in early season 4, for the sake of better storytelling. Many thanks to nu_breed and corilannam for their completely awesome beta work on this story. They are amazing.
The Map of Honor
by Destina
Battles had always been Arthur's forte. He was born to the sword, and had spent his lifetime honing every skill surrounding its use. He could see patterns laid out clearly in his mind, start to finish, each move the opposing forces would make, each counter he would pursue. He planned his offensive strategies in detail, to take best advantage of all he had learned in his years behind the sword. The result of his careful preparations had borne fruit a hundred times before, whether in skirmishes or repelling full-on assaults: he was not afraid to die, and therefore he was confident he would win.
It was a successful approach, until it went spectacularly wrong.
The skirmishes with Cenred's men at the border had increased in frequency and size since Cenred's death and the defeat of his tragically transformed army. The power vacuum had given rise to many distinct factions, each intent on proving their right to the territory by taking not only their own kingdom back, but Camelot's lands as well. So it was that Arthur found himself embroiled in what should have been a minor skirmish at Camelot's border with Escetia, fighting from horseback as the latest challenge was put forth.
"Not such a small army, is it?" Gwaine shouted, as he dismounted near Arthur to step into the fray.
Arthur would have replied, but he was busy burying his sword in the chest of an Escetian whose sword had missed Arthur by a fraction of an inch. He unhorsed the warrior, and turned to see Gwaine staggered by a sound blow to his neck -- where armor did not protect him.
"To Gwaine!" he shouted, aware the cry would bring Percival and Lancelot to his side as soon as they were able to break away, because they were closest to the point of battle. He turned his horse and crashed into the warrior who was poised to deliver Gwaine's death blow, trampling him without a second thought. Gwaine dropped to his knees, but waved a hand, signaling that he could carry on.
Arthur gripped his reins and moved to turn his horse, just as a sword crashed into his side, the force of the blow more than enough to cut through all protections, down through skin and muscle and bone. His mail hung open, cut cleanly and useless against any weapon.
Each moment thereafter unfolded for Arthur with sharp clarity, as if he was frozen in time. First, the second bite of the sword, cleaving through what remained of his mail and delving clean into his side, deeper than any wound he had ever experienced before. The pain washed into him, through him, taking his breath with it, and what little sense he still possessed was blown from him when he fell from his horse, and his sword clattered from his hand.
On his back, he glanced up to see the Escetian warrior over him, a triumphant snarl on his face with broken teeth bared, blood trickling down his forehead and matted in his hair. Arthur's fingers twitched toward his sword by instinct and closed around the hilt, but he wouldn't be able to wield it with enough strength to strike a killing blow.
A stunned inevitability rocked him. He would still try, until his literal last breath, but it would not be enough. The Escetian would end it quickly, or he would bleed out here, but it was over. He would not survive.
Two cries sounded behind the Escetian, one a growl of rage, the other a grunt of effort, and the points of two swords emerged from the Escetian's chest. When they withdrew, the Escetian began to topple toward Arthur, and was yanked back violently and tossed to the side. Percival stood there, having thrown the Escetian like a rag doll; Gwaine was by his side, sword dripping with fresh blood, his hand covering the gash at his neck. Arthur spared a moment to be profoundly grateful that Gwaine's wound was not so serious -- not for himself, but for his most reluctant knight, whose head had nearly been separated from his body.
A moment later, Merlin pushed between them and dropped to his knees at Arthur's side. It was amazing how often Merlin was close to Arthur in the heat of battle, despite Arthur's repeated warnings and commands to remain back at the camp, where he could not be harmed. He was a fool, but he was Arthur's fool, and in that moment, Arthur was selfishly glad Merlin never listened to anything he was told to do.
"Arthur!" Merlin cried, fear and grief on his features, as he bent near. Arthur recognized the expression on his face, knew the feeling manifested by the frantic touch of his hands, first on Arthur's wrist, and then on any inch of skin not covered by blood and armor. Arthur had felt that way before, with Merlin, had wanted nothing more than to reassure himself with touch when Merlin was injured, and he knew the feeling for what it was now.
Merlin, Arthur thought, and I wish we had more time.
And then all was darkness.
**
When sense returned, so did pain. Arthur squeezed his eyes more tightly closed and tried to will it away, but it refused to obey him. Typical. Merlin was all wrong; he was no great king. In fact, he was a rubbish king. Even his own body would not cooperate with his commands.
He became aware of voices, low and urgent, angry. "There's no one else," the first said. Elyan. "The riders won't return with Gaius for a day, and we haven't the time."
"We can't even be sure that dog is a physician," Gwaine replied. "He could kill Arthur. How can we--"
"It's not relevant," Lancelot said, soft and calm as always. "He can do no harm, now. Either he will help, or he will speed the king to his death, but there is no one else."
"Fine," Leon said, his tone clipped. Arthur could sense the strain in his voice. "Bring him in, then."
Arthur realized he might want to be awake for this. After all, a king was not supposed to show weakness, and he had been a king for such a short time. Barely long enough to choose his knights, have a coronation, and go to war. Not a very impressive list of achievements; he hadn't even died in a particularly impressive way. Uther would have been dreadfully disappointed.
He blinked open his eyes, and the pain began to magnify with every speck of light against his eyeballs. Red surrounded him -- the camp tent, fluttering gently in the breeze. Dim light -- torches. It was night, then. He had been senseless for some time. Long enough to cause his knights to descend into arguments over his welfare, which was never a good sign.
Merlin was sitting at the edge of his bed, watching him. "Arthur," he said, voice cracking, and as one, the knights behind him turned.
"Sire," Leon said, coming closer. He crouched at the bedside, close enough for Arthur to see the lines of worry and fear etched on his face. The last time Leon had looked so concerned, Uther had been dying. "It's good to see you awake."
"How long?" Arthur asked, frowning to hear his own voice, rusty like the creak of a weathered hinge.
"A few hours, sire. We feared..." Leon swallowed. "The wound would not stop bleeding."
"The battle?" It was all he cared about, in truth; that the tide was turned, and Camelot was safe.
"Won," Merlin said, his fingers a gentle pressure upon Arthur's wrist. "The Escetians have forfeited the field."
"Decisively," Leon added. "Their leader waits to surrender to you."
"And the pretender to the throne?"
"Not near the battle," Leon said. "If he was in fact in control of this lot, which we don't know."
"Is someone going to get the physician?" Gwaine broke in, loud and unapologetic. He put a hand on Merlin's shoulder, patted once, and Merlin reluctantly rose to his feet to make room for Gwaine. The loss of Merlin's warm touch made Arthur frown. "Sire, there is an Escetian prisoner outside who claims to be experienced with battle wounds. We've sent for Gaius, but your wounds...we feel they should be seen to immediately. Merlin's knowledge of the healing arts is limited, and there isn't time to waste."
"Then bring him in."
Leon glowered at Gwaine, who met his stare with equal anger. Leon turned to Arthur. "Sire, I don't trust--"
"Bring him in," Arthur said again, stronger this time, the rust falling away from his throat. "Merlin, you will stay. Leon and Gwaine, you also. The rest of you, wait outside."
A flurry of bowed heads and rustling capes, and the knights moved out into the camp, leaving only Merlin with him. Arthur closed his eyes for a moment to concentrate on overcoming the pain. No matter how bad his wounds truly were, the Escetians needed to know he was alive, and appeared strong. Word would spread among them that Camelot's king was still breathing, and that could prove to be important, if Arthur's recovery was long.
"Arthur," Merlin said. There was clear distress in his tone, and for the first time, Arthur looked into his eyes.
"That bad?" he asked.
Merlin bit his lip, and his warm fingers were back, curling around Arthur's forearm like he couldn't help himself.
"Help me sit up," Arthur said, bracing a hand against the edge of his cot. Merlin's arm slipped beneath his back, and took most of his weight. Arthur could not even pretend he was strong enough to move on his own power. Merlin shoved pillows and furs behind him, and Arthur hissed at the sudden stabbing pains radiating through his chest and abdomen as he reclined.
The argument Merlin wanted to voice was written all over his chiding expression, but for once, he held his tongue. That alone worried Arthur more than all the pain, more than the worried faces of his knights. Arthur sighed out as Merlin arranged the blanket over him, his fingertips ghosting against the bandage wrapped across Arthur's belly. For the first time, Arthur considered the actual wound. It was still bleeding; a slow ooze of red was spreading over the pristine white. The pain told him clearly how large the wound was, how deep.
Belly wounds were usually fatal, in Arthur's experience. Arthur was nothing if not a pragmatist. He had seen too many men die from complications of even the simplest cuts, but Gaius could do miracles, or so it had always seemed to Arthur. He could hang on that long, at least, and in the meantime, he would put on a show for the Escetian men, one that even their leader could not deny.
Over Merlin's shoulder, Leon and Gwaine approached, bearing a strange man between them. His clothing and armor was Escetian, and his face was streaked with the dust of the battlefield. Many men's blood saturated his clothing and stained his skin.
"Your majesty," he said, bowing, sufficient respect even without Leon's firm hand on his shoulder.
Arthur nodded to him, and Leon cut the ties which bound his hands. Merlin shifted to the side, but made no move to leave him, and the Escetian knelt by his bedside. "Water," he said. "For my hands."
"Stop wasting time," Gwaine growled.
"No," Merlin said. He rose quickly and ran to the table, bringing back a bowl and towel. "Gaius says cleanliness is important." He offered the bowl to the physician, whose gratitude showed in his eyes. He washed quickly; the towel turned dark red as he finished with it.
When he turned his attentions at last to Arthur, his manner was quick and efficient, much like Gaius's ministrations often were. Arthur turned away from the sight of his own wound, exposed to the air. He caught and held Merlin's gaze. Merlin, whose agitation was tempered with an eerie calmness, much as if he knew his king needed it of him. Merlin was always there to provide what was needed.
It was strange that at this moment, Arthur should want nothing more than to reach out a hand for him, to draw Merlin back to his side, to draw him down into his arms. There had always been something about Merlin, his devotion, and Arthur had thought there might be time, one day, for such indulgences. Someday, when the business of running a kingdom was not foremost on his mind. Someday, when the situation with Gwen was settled.
The searing pain tearing its way through his body told him that someday was no longer an option for him, and he gasped, lifting his chin. The Escetian physician carefully rewrapped the wound and looked up at Arthur. "Sire," he said. "There is nothing I can do. It would not be beneficial to sew the wound, as I would only seal in corruption. The wound must be cleaned every few hours, until it begins to heal. Once that begins, only time will tell."
"Your honest opinion," Arthur said.
"You are strong," the Escetian said. "You may yet survive it, but I have rarely seen men live long after such a blow."
"You do not know our king, then," Leon snarled, and Merlin reached out a hand, an automatic gesture, to calm Arthur's longest-serving knight. Leon quieted and stepped back a pace, though muted fury remained in his eyes. The sight of it tugged at Arthur's heart. He had never realized how much his knights loved Merlin, and how much sway his servant held over them.
Then again, this was Merlin, and it should not have surprised him at all.
"I am sorry," the Escetian said, his head inclined in the way men have of accepting their fate. He probably expected to be put to death for bringing bad news. "In a day or so, we shall see if the wound festers, and all will become clear."
"Thank you," Arthur said. He straightened his spine. "You may go." He nodded to Leon, whose desperate fury was not tempered at all by the way Merlin had interrupted his anger with a touch. "Take him back to the prisoners. Make sure he is not harmed, and that none there suffer."
"Sire." Gwaine and Leon removed the Escetian, but they were not rough with him.
Merlin was back at his side immediately, drawing the blankets up and fussing until Arthur slapped his hands away. "Merlin, make yourself useful, if that isn't too much trouble for you, and find some broth."
"You're hungry?" The hopeful look on Merlin's face was almost too much to bear. Arthur forced himself to narrow his eyes for proper effect.
"Tell me, why else would I ask you to rouse yourself from this comfortable perch and set about getting my dinner?"
"All right," Merlin grumbled, with a reproachful look, but the worry did not leave his eyes.
When he had gone, Arthur gave in to the deep desire to slide back down against the hard mattress, one hand across the wet bandage. His own blood came away on his fingertips, as if seeking to flee what was left of his body. He was not hungry, and it didn't matter; he couldn't keep his eyes open. Slowly, he succumbed to the need for sleep, and darkness overtook him.
**
Two or three times over the course of the night, Arthur woke from fitful sleep, and always, Merlin was there -- standing, sitting, ever nearby regardless of who else might be keeping vigil. Arthur caught Gwaine in the throes of a dream, one hand on Arthur's shoulder, fingers twitching as he battled unseen foes in his sleep. He watched Gwaine for a while, wondering at the fierce loyalty Gwaine freely gave to him, and where it had come from. Even now, he felt undeserving of it, of Gwaine's steady presence among his most trusted advisors.
Merlin sat at the foot of the bed, watching Arthur watch Gwaine. He was entirely silent; only his eyes glittered in the dark, as if he was waiting for something, some signal to rise, or speak. Arthur held his stare for a long moment, comfortable in the silence, until sleep took him again.
When next Arthur woke, Lancelot was there. Merlin was at Arthur's other side, rewrapping a fresh bandage tight around Arthur's ribs. His hands were trembling, and his nose was red.
Arthur sighed. "Are you dampening the bandages, Merlin?" he asked, his voice even rougher than before. It was startling, even to him. "I'll have you know, this level of incompetence is going to be frowned upon by Gaius when he arrives. I'll have to make a full report, of course."
"Of course." Merlin tied the ends of the dressing together with the gentlest touch imaginable, so light Arthur couldn't even feel it. Merlin reached down and produced a cup, and his hand slipped beneath Arthur's head to lift it, bringing water to his lips.
It was delicious, cool and wet against his aching throat, better than the best wine. Merlin's fingertips pressed against his skin, not quite carding through his hair, but as near as. When he lowered Arthur's head, Arthur was almost disappointed by the absence of his touch.
Sleep had given some clarity to the direction of Arthur's thoughts. As if he could see the flame of his life burning down past the candle marks, he knew there was not much time. So many things he had left to do; so few of them were truly important.
"Merlin," he said, meeting Lancelot's eyes. "Leave us, for a moment."
Merlin nodded. When he got to his feet, he exchanged glances with Lancelot before making his way out.
Arthur shifted his attention to Lancelot, who looked very much worse than Merlin had. The bruises of sleeplessness were beneath his eyes, and exhaustion was plain in the set of his shoulders. "Have you not slept since the battle?"
"It's not important," Lancelot answered, leaning forward. "How do you feel?"
"That's a question best left unanswered," Arthur said. A litany of complaints awaited the beginning of his report to Gaius, carefully cataloged and stored away for that moment. His right arm was numb, his back and right leg were on fire, and a deep, wrenching pain radiated through his chest and belly. His body felt like a limp piece of cloth. Strength was ebbing away from him with the night. "What is the status of the camp?"
"Leon has it all well in hand," Lancelot answered. "He does well, in command."
"So he does." Arthur sighed. Without further preamble, he said, "Lancelot, there is the matter of Guinevere to discuss."
Tension tightened Lancelot's body. "Sire, I--"
"You are an honorable man, I know. That is why I'm giving you permission to act upon your heart's desire."
"You cannot mean it," Lancelot said, his face ashen.
"I'm dying, Lancelot. Of course I mean it." Arthur swallowed hard, watching gratitude and grief war with one another in Lancelot's eyes. "If by some miracle I survive, and am fit to be king once again, I will not change my mind on this. Guinevere has not been truly free to choose, since our promises to each other were all but made before you returned -- but I will rectify that mistake, and I'm quite certain I will end up the loser in that bargain."
"Sire, I cannot," Lancelot said, more desperately, but Arthur was tired of it, tired of all of it, and he cut the air with a motion from his hand.
"You will. Unless you think your king's command carries no weight?"
"You cannot command this of me," Lancelot said, almost a gasp.
"No. But I can ask it of you, as a friend." Arthur reached out, and Lancelot clasped his hand as tight as he ever had, as if Arthur was not fading before him. As if he could draw him back by this strength alone. "Make peace with it, Lancelot. If Gwen wishes to be yours, then she shall be yours, but she is no longer mine."
"As you wish," Lancelot said. He did not let go of Arthur's hand.
"I had thought to entrust Merlin to you as well, but he will require more management than one man can give," Arthur said, smiling.
"I think perhaps you can safely entrust him to Gwaine's care," Lancelot said quietly. "And I will look after him, as well."
A pang of longing passed through Arthur's heart. He had always suspected there was something between Gwaine and Merlin, or at the very least, that Gwaine cared for Merlin far beyond simple friendship. It had been none of his business; he had tried not to look, for fear he might actually see.
It was complicated, or had seemed so, once. Now, it seemed very easy. Merlin was not his; Merlin had never been his. It was not his right to choose what path Merlin would take. He could only make his feelings plain to all involved.
Arthur coughed, wincing at the way his body ached with each tensing of the muscles. "Gwaine needs no instruction from me on that point."
"No," Lancelot said slowly, "but perhaps he needs permission."
"What? Merlin is..." Arthur broke off, suddenly, understanding entirely what Lancelot was trying to say. He remembered the look on Merlin's face when Arthur had fallen. He remembered his own stirrings of tenderness, when he had understood what a fool he had been. Gwaine, unlike both Arthur and Merlin, was apparently no fool at all.
"It is soon to be a moot point," Arthur said, instead of belaboring a useless regret.
"Sire," Lancelot said, the word laden with fear. "You must not give up."
"Lancelot, my strength is failing. I can feel it. Even now, it is difficult for me to lift my head, much less keep my eyes open. I do not think the further verdict of the Escetian healer is required."
"I won't believe it," Lancelot said.
"That is why you're a knight of Camelot," Arthur said. "Because you have faith. Because you stand true." Arthur squeezed his hand, then released it. "Stand true with me now. And send in the others. One at a time, if you please."
**
They came in an endless progression, his small inner circle. Percival, to whom Arthur gave a treasured sword. Elyan, to whom Arthur gave land, and who wept, unable to hide his grief. Arthur felt strangely detached from it, as though their pain could not touch his own.
Gwaine did not weep, but his misery was clear the moment Arthur broached the subject of Merlin.
"Sire, should we be speaking of such matters now?" Gwaine said, shifting uneasily. He knelt by Arthur's bedside, worry written plainly in every line of his face. "You should save your strength."
"Gwaine, all too often I have put off 'such things' until it was too late. And now here we are." Arthur winced as he stretched gingerly, adjusting his position in the bed. There was no longer a comfortable position in which to sit or lay, and so he sighed and gave up the effort.
"I haven't thanked you yet," Gwaine said, a useless attempt to change the subject, as far as Arthur was concerned. "You saved my life."
Arthur smiled. "It was little enough repayment for the many times you have shown me loyalty. Even before you thought I was worthy of it."
Gwaine rubbed at his neck in embarrassment, then hissed, having forgotten momentarily about the bandaged wound there. Arthur chuckled. "I know your loyalties have always been with Merlin, out of friendship. But you have been true to your vows of knighthood, and one of the best of my men, Gwaine. Thank you."
"This is all wrong," Gwaine said. "Sire, it should have been my sacrifice, for you -- not yours, for me."
"It was meant to be this way," Arthur answered. "No one can predict the time of their death. Perhaps I was meant to fall. Perhaps you have a great destiny, Gwaine."
"Unlikely," Gwaine muttered. He met Arthur's eyes. "Sire, if there is anything I can do, name it."
"Then let us come back to the subject of Merlin," Arthur said at once, ignoring Gwaine's sigh. "He will need someone to ground him. To take care of him, until he makes a decision about where his path will take him. I am tasking you with this." Arthur swallowed, then said the words he had not even thought to himself before that moment. "He is precious to me. Do this, for your king."
"I would do it regardless," Gwaine said, ever direct. "But I will do as you ask." He clasped Arthur's wrist, his grip strong and careful, and Arthur put his hand over Gwaine's for the briefest of moments before withdrawing.
It was a short conversation, but adequate. Merlin would not be alone, and would not be left without a position or care. Gwaine would see to him. This burden Arthur had not even known he carried was lifted, and he and Gwaine nodded to each other with perfect understanding.
Leon was last, and Arthur found himself considering succession. He had never given it much thought, for all the years he'd obsessed with being the perfect prince. It seemed strange he had not yet had time to consider the idea of heirs, of who would rule once he was gone. His uncle was the logical choice, but Arthur looked at Leon and wished there had been more time to groom him, to groom one from among the knights who would be ready to assume his place, in case something should befall him before he had an heir. Which, of course, it had. His planning skills left much to be desired.
"Nicely done, cabbage head," he murmured to himself, which earned a startled look from Leon.
"My lord?" he asked, his brow furrowed with puzzlement.
"Never mind." Arthur grimaced and turned slightly on his side. The pain was harsher now, more difficult to ignore, and it was starting to consume his mind with tendrils of fire. "Leon, you will need to assume the greater burden. It is you who must return to Camelot and ensure proper succession to the throne."
"Of course, sire."
"I'm entrusting you with this; you, and the others. You must have the scribe draw up the documents for my seal. Agravaine must become king. It is the only way to prevent Morgana from attempting to assert her rights as Uther's child."
"We repelled her once," Leon said, looking for all the world as if he wished he had a chance to do it again, and properly.
"Indeed. And that time may yet come again." A wave of nausea stopped Arthur, and while he struggled to regain his equilibrium, Leon hurried to the tent opening and called to the court scribe. The boy looked terrified as he approached Arthur on the cot. No doubt it was because Arthur looked like death personified.
Slowly, Arthur recited the necessary words, and gave the instructions Geoffrey would need to ensure his wishes were carried out. When it was done, the boy nodded and tucked the document into his shirt for safekeeping.
"Place a detail for protection on him at all times, Leon," Arthur said, satisfied by the determined nod Leon gave in return as he sent the boy out. "You have been an exceptional second in command," he said, clasping Leon's hand. "Do not fail me in this last duty."
"Sire," Leon said, stricken, and for a time, they sat in silence, since there was no more to be said.
"You should rest," Leon said eventually. He clasped Arthur's hand, then withdrew reluctantly.
"Yes. Send in Merlin," Arthur said.
It was likely Merlin had been hovering just outside the entire time the knights had been receiving their orders, because he stuck his face in the tent flap before Leon was even outside, their eyes meeting as Merlin set to work, getting water for Arthur, bringing an extra blanket.
Neither of those were what Arthur needed, however, and so he stilled Merlin's hands with a touch as he pulled the blanket to Arthur's chest. "Sit," Arthur said, and Merlin did, though he fussed a bit more until the blanket was exactly where he wanted it. Which, now that Arthur had time to reflect, was usually how Merlin did things; not clumsily, but carefully, with an eye toward Arthur's comfort. It was stunning, how much Arthur had willfully overlooked.
Merlin perched at the edge of the cot, his worried gaze fixed on Arthur's abdomen, so Arthur decided to take advantage of Merlin's distraction, and for once, he looked his fill. Merlin's face was smudged with dirt; there were tiny flakes of mud in his hair. A small, shallow scrape grazed his left cheek, untended, and dots of blood had welled and dried there. His left hand -- the one resting on Arthur's chest, now -- was bruised, the knuckles slightly swollen.
In short, Merlin was a mess, and to Arthur, he had never looked more beautiful.
He snorted softly to himself. Just like him, to turn ridiculous and sentimental at the time he could least afford it. Or perhaps, this was the only time he ever could afford it. There was nothing left to lose, after all. Time, the most precious of all things, and one of the few things a king could not control, was slipping away from him. Soon, it would be too late.
Arthur reached down and took hold of Merlin's hand, pressing it to his chest. "Merlin," he said softly. He rubbed his thumb across Merlin's wrist, and Merlin's gaze snapped to his face. "You have been a faithful servant to me, and a true friend. It's for this reason I never acted on what I feel for you."
"What you feel..." The look on Merlin's face would have been comical, at any other time. "I don't understand."
Arthur waited the brief moment it took Merlin to work it through, and then he said, "I saw in your eyes today, on the battlefield, that you feel the same. You need not confirm it; I ask nothing of you. I only wanted to--"
"Arthur!" Merlin said, through gritted teeth. He was crying, Arthur realized, in the way angry people have of crying without really being aware, tears slipping down his face unnoticed. "Arthur, you insufferable prat." He wiped his tears with both hands, heedless of the wet mess he made of his face. "You wait until you're dying to say something?"
"Well, it wouldn't do me much good to wait until tomorrow, now would it?"
Merlin peered at him with an expression wavering between anger and anguish, as if Arthur was a particularly annoying conundrum someone had dropped in his lap and told him to solve immediately. Arthur could sympathize. Now that he wouldn't have another opportunity to do so, he found he wanted to catalog each of Merlin's terribly irritating expressions, and all the emotional ones besides. All the times Merlin had called him names, or begged him to listen (something he was particularly inept at; it seemed as though the mere word 'listen' was capable of shuttering Arthur's ears), or seemed on the verge of tears for some hurt the world had inflicted -- Arthur wanted them all back.
It dawned on him, slowly, that he didn't need them. He could remember them all, every nuance of them. Merlin was tender-hearted, and had shown his heart to Arthur even when a lesser man would hide what he felt, would shrink away from telling his king the truth. It was those moments, most of all, which flooded Arthur's mind.
He raised Merlin's hand and pressed a kiss to the pulse at his wrist, thrilling to the sensation of it quickening beneath his lips. Merlin looked stricken; not the best reaction Arthur had ever had to a kiss. "Merlin," he whispered, in an entirely different tone. He reached up with his free hand and slid it around Merlin's neck, pulling gently, until Merlin was close enough, and then he touched his lips to Merlin's, holding nothing back.
Merlin opened to him slowly, as Arthur deepened the kiss, and suddenly Merlin met him with equal hunger. Arthur wanted all of him, or as much as he could have for now, and he curled his hand in Merlin's hair, bringing him even closer. They kissed until Merlin drew back to pull in a ragged breath, and Arthur carded a hand through his hair.
"You have dreadful timing," Merlin said, his eyes shining with the emotion Arthur had ignored for so long.
"So I've been told." Arthur smiled, filled with a satisfied joy, and patted the blankets. "Stay here with me a while."
Merlin frowned. "I don't want to hurt you."
"Impossible."
"The knights will see," Merlin said, though every line of his body seemed to be leaning toward Arthur. "They'll know."
"Then let them see," Arthur said. "There is nothing here to see that they don't already know." Arthur caught Merlin's gaze, held it. "I will have you here, on this night."
Merlin nodded slowly, accepting the reality of it, Arthur could see. There was grief in his eyes, but Merlin was strong. He had always been strong. He had always been what Arthur needed, even when Arthur had not been certain what was right.
Merlin lifted the blankets and fitted himself to Arthur's side, in the curve of his arm, awkward in the small space until Arthur shifted carefully and then they were locked together, warm and comfortable. Merlin's head rested on Arthur's chest, and it was as close to contented as Arthur thought he had ever felt. So strange, that it should be now, when he was hours away from leaving this world.
"Don't leave," he said to Merlin, who lifted his head and kissed Arthur fiercely in response.
"I will never leave your side," Merlin said softly, a strange, determined expression on his face.
Arthur nodded and closed his eyes. His strength was fading more quickly. If he slept, he could steal a few more moments with Merlin, and nothing seemed more important, now.
**
Arthur rose slowly from sleep, blinking his eyes open in the darkness of the tent. The candles had been extinguished, and Merlin's warmth was no longer pressed against his side. He felt its absence keenly.
The wound, however, was worsening. Pain clawed at him from inside his body, searing and incessant. He drew in a harsh breath and lifted his chin to glance down his body. The sudden realization that he could see, that the tent was awash in a strange blue light, triggered a memory for him: climbing the sheer walls of a cave to pluck a tiny flower from its perch.
He turned his head, and found Merlin kneeling beside the cot, a glowing ball of light in his hand and a look of sorrowful apology on his face. "I can't wait any longer," Merlin said softly. "Gaius won't be in time."
Like the thunder of a waterfall cascading toward the rocks, a thousand questions resolved themselves in Arthur's mind -- impossible escapes, injuries he should not have survived, and so much more. He had always suspected both Merlin and Gaius of small enchantments, spells worked for the good of others, and he had turned a blind eye. It was a healer's job to heal, and Arthur would be damned if he'd interfere with it. But this...this was so much more than he had imagined.
He reached out and cupped his hand underneath Merlin's, transfixed by the ball of light. He remembered this -- the sensation of being watched over, cared for, helped in a moment where he could not help himself. Tendrils of light skittered out and wrapped around his wrist, soft and pleasant, and Merlin drew in a sharp breath. Arthur drew his hand back, running his fingertips down the back of Merlin's hand as he did so.
There were a thousand conversations they could have had about this, once. Conversations that ended in Merlin banished, or imprisoned in the dungeons. Arguments that might have ended in Merlin's death, or in Arthur's disgrace for refusing to send him there. Deep down, Arthur knew he would never have allowed Merlin to suffer for this. The hatred of magic Uther had tried to drill into him had simply failed to take root as it should. Arthur had always considered it a spectacular failing on his part.
Until now.
The beauty of the light captivated him, and the ball of power appeared to be growing in Merlin's hand, slowly filling up with light.
"Arthur," Merlin said. "I'm not certain I have enough power to heal you. Whatever happens...it was worth it."
"What do you mean, whatever happens?" Through the fog of pain, a horrible suspicion began to dawn on Arthur, and he said, "Merlin, no."
In answer, Merlin leaned across Arthur's body and kissed him, slowly, in such a tender and deliberate manner Arthur knew the answer to his question. He reached a hand to push Merlin back, but Merlin was already in motion. He pushed his hands together, and began to speak words Arthur didn't recognize. The sound of them raised the hair on Arthur's neck. Merlin directed the ball of light toward Arthur, and then his hands were on Arthur's body, and his magic -- his magic --
Arthur arched off the bed, a soundless cry arrested in his throat, as Merlin's eyes transformed to a glittering gold, and then a shout did escape Arthur as his body knitted itself together at Merlin's command, at Merlin's will.
He could hear a commotion outside, but all Arthur could see was the limitless blue of Merlin's eyes, consumed by gold. Joy spread through him, and he understood it to be Merlin's joy, Merlin's sense of victory, that Arthur would live.
It was the last thing he knew before darkness claimed him once again.
on to part 2
Arthur/Merlin, 12,700 words, canon-era, hurt/comfort, adult
Summary: Arthur sustains a mortal wound in battle, and makes preparations to accept his fate. Merlin has other ideas.
Warnings: none. Please note, there is no character death in this story.
Notes: Technically has spoilers through 4x03, but I tweaked the timeline on certain things in early season 4, for the sake of better storytelling. Many thanks to nu_breed and corilannam for their completely awesome beta work on this story. They are amazing.
The Map of Honor
by Destina
Battles had always been Arthur's forte. He was born to the sword, and had spent his lifetime honing every skill surrounding its use. He could see patterns laid out clearly in his mind, start to finish, each move the opposing forces would make, each counter he would pursue. He planned his offensive strategies in detail, to take best advantage of all he had learned in his years behind the sword. The result of his careful preparations had borne fruit a hundred times before, whether in skirmishes or repelling full-on assaults: he was not afraid to die, and therefore he was confident he would win.
It was a successful approach, until it went spectacularly wrong.
The skirmishes with Cenred's men at the border had increased in frequency and size since Cenred's death and the defeat of his tragically transformed army. The power vacuum had given rise to many distinct factions, each intent on proving their right to the territory by taking not only their own kingdom back, but Camelot's lands as well. So it was that Arthur found himself embroiled in what should have been a minor skirmish at Camelot's border with Escetia, fighting from horseback as the latest challenge was put forth.
"Not such a small army, is it?" Gwaine shouted, as he dismounted near Arthur to step into the fray.
Arthur would have replied, but he was busy burying his sword in the chest of an Escetian whose sword had missed Arthur by a fraction of an inch. He unhorsed the warrior, and turned to see Gwaine staggered by a sound blow to his neck -- where armor did not protect him.
"To Gwaine!" he shouted, aware the cry would bring Percival and Lancelot to his side as soon as they were able to break away, because they were closest to the point of battle. He turned his horse and crashed into the warrior who was poised to deliver Gwaine's death blow, trampling him without a second thought. Gwaine dropped to his knees, but waved a hand, signaling that he could carry on.
Arthur gripped his reins and moved to turn his horse, just as a sword crashed into his side, the force of the blow more than enough to cut through all protections, down through skin and muscle and bone. His mail hung open, cut cleanly and useless against any weapon.
Each moment thereafter unfolded for Arthur with sharp clarity, as if he was frozen in time. First, the second bite of the sword, cleaving through what remained of his mail and delving clean into his side, deeper than any wound he had ever experienced before. The pain washed into him, through him, taking his breath with it, and what little sense he still possessed was blown from him when he fell from his horse, and his sword clattered from his hand.
On his back, he glanced up to see the Escetian warrior over him, a triumphant snarl on his face with broken teeth bared, blood trickling down his forehead and matted in his hair. Arthur's fingers twitched toward his sword by instinct and closed around the hilt, but he wouldn't be able to wield it with enough strength to strike a killing blow.
A stunned inevitability rocked him. He would still try, until his literal last breath, but it would not be enough. The Escetian would end it quickly, or he would bleed out here, but it was over. He would not survive.
Two cries sounded behind the Escetian, one a growl of rage, the other a grunt of effort, and the points of two swords emerged from the Escetian's chest. When they withdrew, the Escetian began to topple toward Arthur, and was yanked back violently and tossed to the side. Percival stood there, having thrown the Escetian like a rag doll; Gwaine was by his side, sword dripping with fresh blood, his hand covering the gash at his neck. Arthur spared a moment to be profoundly grateful that Gwaine's wound was not so serious -- not for himself, but for his most reluctant knight, whose head had nearly been separated from his body.
A moment later, Merlin pushed between them and dropped to his knees at Arthur's side. It was amazing how often Merlin was close to Arthur in the heat of battle, despite Arthur's repeated warnings and commands to remain back at the camp, where he could not be harmed. He was a fool, but he was Arthur's fool, and in that moment, Arthur was selfishly glad Merlin never listened to anything he was told to do.
"Arthur!" Merlin cried, fear and grief on his features, as he bent near. Arthur recognized the expression on his face, knew the feeling manifested by the frantic touch of his hands, first on Arthur's wrist, and then on any inch of skin not covered by blood and armor. Arthur had felt that way before, with Merlin, had wanted nothing more than to reassure himself with touch when Merlin was injured, and he knew the feeling for what it was now.
Merlin, Arthur thought, and I wish we had more time.
And then all was darkness.
**
When sense returned, so did pain. Arthur squeezed his eyes more tightly closed and tried to will it away, but it refused to obey him. Typical. Merlin was all wrong; he was no great king. In fact, he was a rubbish king. Even his own body would not cooperate with his commands.
He became aware of voices, low and urgent, angry. "There's no one else," the first said. Elyan. "The riders won't return with Gaius for a day, and we haven't the time."
"We can't even be sure that dog is a physician," Gwaine replied. "He could kill Arthur. How can we--"
"It's not relevant," Lancelot said, soft and calm as always. "He can do no harm, now. Either he will help, or he will speed the king to his death, but there is no one else."
"Fine," Leon said, his tone clipped. Arthur could sense the strain in his voice. "Bring him in, then."
Arthur realized he might want to be awake for this. After all, a king was not supposed to show weakness, and he had been a king for such a short time. Barely long enough to choose his knights, have a coronation, and go to war. Not a very impressive list of achievements; he hadn't even died in a particularly impressive way. Uther would have been dreadfully disappointed.
He blinked open his eyes, and the pain began to magnify with every speck of light against his eyeballs. Red surrounded him -- the camp tent, fluttering gently in the breeze. Dim light -- torches. It was night, then. He had been senseless for some time. Long enough to cause his knights to descend into arguments over his welfare, which was never a good sign.
Merlin was sitting at the edge of his bed, watching him. "Arthur," he said, voice cracking, and as one, the knights behind him turned.
"Sire," Leon said, coming closer. He crouched at the bedside, close enough for Arthur to see the lines of worry and fear etched on his face. The last time Leon had looked so concerned, Uther had been dying. "It's good to see you awake."
"How long?" Arthur asked, frowning to hear his own voice, rusty like the creak of a weathered hinge.
"A few hours, sire. We feared..." Leon swallowed. "The wound would not stop bleeding."
"The battle?" It was all he cared about, in truth; that the tide was turned, and Camelot was safe.
"Won," Merlin said, his fingers a gentle pressure upon Arthur's wrist. "The Escetians have forfeited the field."
"Decisively," Leon added. "Their leader waits to surrender to you."
"And the pretender to the throne?"
"Not near the battle," Leon said. "If he was in fact in control of this lot, which we don't know."
"Is someone going to get the physician?" Gwaine broke in, loud and unapologetic. He put a hand on Merlin's shoulder, patted once, and Merlin reluctantly rose to his feet to make room for Gwaine. The loss of Merlin's warm touch made Arthur frown. "Sire, there is an Escetian prisoner outside who claims to be experienced with battle wounds. We've sent for Gaius, but your wounds...we feel they should be seen to immediately. Merlin's knowledge of the healing arts is limited, and there isn't time to waste."
"Then bring him in."
Leon glowered at Gwaine, who met his stare with equal anger. Leon turned to Arthur. "Sire, I don't trust--"
"Bring him in," Arthur said again, stronger this time, the rust falling away from his throat. "Merlin, you will stay. Leon and Gwaine, you also. The rest of you, wait outside."
A flurry of bowed heads and rustling capes, and the knights moved out into the camp, leaving only Merlin with him. Arthur closed his eyes for a moment to concentrate on overcoming the pain. No matter how bad his wounds truly were, the Escetians needed to know he was alive, and appeared strong. Word would spread among them that Camelot's king was still breathing, and that could prove to be important, if Arthur's recovery was long.
"Arthur," Merlin said. There was clear distress in his tone, and for the first time, Arthur looked into his eyes.
"That bad?" he asked.
Merlin bit his lip, and his warm fingers were back, curling around Arthur's forearm like he couldn't help himself.
"Help me sit up," Arthur said, bracing a hand against the edge of his cot. Merlin's arm slipped beneath his back, and took most of his weight. Arthur could not even pretend he was strong enough to move on his own power. Merlin shoved pillows and furs behind him, and Arthur hissed at the sudden stabbing pains radiating through his chest and abdomen as he reclined.
The argument Merlin wanted to voice was written all over his chiding expression, but for once, he held his tongue. That alone worried Arthur more than all the pain, more than the worried faces of his knights. Arthur sighed out as Merlin arranged the blanket over him, his fingertips ghosting against the bandage wrapped across Arthur's belly. For the first time, Arthur considered the actual wound. It was still bleeding; a slow ooze of red was spreading over the pristine white. The pain told him clearly how large the wound was, how deep.
Belly wounds were usually fatal, in Arthur's experience. Arthur was nothing if not a pragmatist. He had seen too many men die from complications of even the simplest cuts, but Gaius could do miracles, or so it had always seemed to Arthur. He could hang on that long, at least, and in the meantime, he would put on a show for the Escetian men, one that even their leader could not deny.
Over Merlin's shoulder, Leon and Gwaine approached, bearing a strange man between them. His clothing and armor was Escetian, and his face was streaked with the dust of the battlefield. Many men's blood saturated his clothing and stained his skin.
"Your majesty," he said, bowing, sufficient respect even without Leon's firm hand on his shoulder.
Arthur nodded to him, and Leon cut the ties which bound his hands. Merlin shifted to the side, but made no move to leave him, and the Escetian knelt by his bedside. "Water," he said. "For my hands."
"Stop wasting time," Gwaine growled.
"No," Merlin said. He rose quickly and ran to the table, bringing back a bowl and towel. "Gaius says cleanliness is important." He offered the bowl to the physician, whose gratitude showed in his eyes. He washed quickly; the towel turned dark red as he finished with it.
When he turned his attentions at last to Arthur, his manner was quick and efficient, much like Gaius's ministrations often were. Arthur turned away from the sight of his own wound, exposed to the air. He caught and held Merlin's gaze. Merlin, whose agitation was tempered with an eerie calmness, much as if he knew his king needed it of him. Merlin was always there to provide what was needed.
It was strange that at this moment, Arthur should want nothing more than to reach out a hand for him, to draw Merlin back to his side, to draw him down into his arms. There had always been something about Merlin, his devotion, and Arthur had thought there might be time, one day, for such indulgences. Someday, when the business of running a kingdom was not foremost on his mind. Someday, when the situation with Gwen was settled.
The searing pain tearing its way through his body told him that someday was no longer an option for him, and he gasped, lifting his chin. The Escetian physician carefully rewrapped the wound and looked up at Arthur. "Sire," he said. "There is nothing I can do. It would not be beneficial to sew the wound, as I would only seal in corruption. The wound must be cleaned every few hours, until it begins to heal. Once that begins, only time will tell."
"Your honest opinion," Arthur said.
"You are strong," the Escetian said. "You may yet survive it, but I have rarely seen men live long after such a blow."
"You do not know our king, then," Leon snarled, and Merlin reached out a hand, an automatic gesture, to calm Arthur's longest-serving knight. Leon quieted and stepped back a pace, though muted fury remained in his eyes. The sight of it tugged at Arthur's heart. He had never realized how much his knights loved Merlin, and how much sway his servant held over them.
Then again, this was Merlin, and it should not have surprised him at all.
"I am sorry," the Escetian said, his head inclined in the way men have of accepting their fate. He probably expected to be put to death for bringing bad news. "In a day or so, we shall see if the wound festers, and all will become clear."
"Thank you," Arthur said. He straightened his spine. "You may go." He nodded to Leon, whose desperate fury was not tempered at all by the way Merlin had interrupted his anger with a touch. "Take him back to the prisoners. Make sure he is not harmed, and that none there suffer."
"Sire." Gwaine and Leon removed the Escetian, but they were not rough with him.
Merlin was back at his side immediately, drawing the blankets up and fussing until Arthur slapped his hands away. "Merlin, make yourself useful, if that isn't too much trouble for you, and find some broth."
"You're hungry?" The hopeful look on Merlin's face was almost too much to bear. Arthur forced himself to narrow his eyes for proper effect.
"Tell me, why else would I ask you to rouse yourself from this comfortable perch and set about getting my dinner?"
"All right," Merlin grumbled, with a reproachful look, but the worry did not leave his eyes.
When he had gone, Arthur gave in to the deep desire to slide back down against the hard mattress, one hand across the wet bandage. His own blood came away on his fingertips, as if seeking to flee what was left of his body. He was not hungry, and it didn't matter; he couldn't keep his eyes open. Slowly, he succumbed to the need for sleep, and darkness overtook him.
**
Two or three times over the course of the night, Arthur woke from fitful sleep, and always, Merlin was there -- standing, sitting, ever nearby regardless of who else might be keeping vigil. Arthur caught Gwaine in the throes of a dream, one hand on Arthur's shoulder, fingers twitching as he battled unseen foes in his sleep. He watched Gwaine for a while, wondering at the fierce loyalty Gwaine freely gave to him, and where it had come from. Even now, he felt undeserving of it, of Gwaine's steady presence among his most trusted advisors.
Merlin sat at the foot of the bed, watching Arthur watch Gwaine. He was entirely silent; only his eyes glittered in the dark, as if he was waiting for something, some signal to rise, or speak. Arthur held his stare for a long moment, comfortable in the silence, until sleep took him again.
When next Arthur woke, Lancelot was there. Merlin was at Arthur's other side, rewrapping a fresh bandage tight around Arthur's ribs. His hands were trembling, and his nose was red.
Arthur sighed. "Are you dampening the bandages, Merlin?" he asked, his voice even rougher than before. It was startling, even to him. "I'll have you know, this level of incompetence is going to be frowned upon by Gaius when he arrives. I'll have to make a full report, of course."
"Of course." Merlin tied the ends of the dressing together with the gentlest touch imaginable, so light Arthur couldn't even feel it. Merlin reached down and produced a cup, and his hand slipped beneath Arthur's head to lift it, bringing water to his lips.
It was delicious, cool and wet against his aching throat, better than the best wine. Merlin's fingertips pressed against his skin, not quite carding through his hair, but as near as. When he lowered Arthur's head, Arthur was almost disappointed by the absence of his touch.
Sleep had given some clarity to the direction of Arthur's thoughts. As if he could see the flame of his life burning down past the candle marks, he knew there was not much time. So many things he had left to do; so few of them were truly important.
"Merlin," he said, meeting Lancelot's eyes. "Leave us, for a moment."
Merlin nodded. When he got to his feet, he exchanged glances with Lancelot before making his way out.
Arthur shifted his attention to Lancelot, who looked very much worse than Merlin had. The bruises of sleeplessness were beneath his eyes, and exhaustion was plain in the set of his shoulders. "Have you not slept since the battle?"
"It's not important," Lancelot answered, leaning forward. "How do you feel?"
"That's a question best left unanswered," Arthur said. A litany of complaints awaited the beginning of his report to Gaius, carefully cataloged and stored away for that moment. His right arm was numb, his back and right leg were on fire, and a deep, wrenching pain radiated through his chest and belly. His body felt like a limp piece of cloth. Strength was ebbing away from him with the night. "What is the status of the camp?"
"Leon has it all well in hand," Lancelot answered. "He does well, in command."
"So he does." Arthur sighed. Without further preamble, he said, "Lancelot, there is the matter of Guinevere to discuss."
Tension tightened Lancelot's body. "Sire, I--"
"You are an honorable man, I know. That is why I'm giving you permission to act upon your heart's desire."
"You cannot mean it," Lancelot said, his face ashen.
"I'm dying, Lancelot. Of course I mean it." Arthur swallowed hard, watching gratitude and grief war with one another in Lancelot's eyes. "If by some miracle I survive, and am fit to be king once again, I will not change my mind on this. Guinevere has not been truly free to choose, since our promises to each other were all but made before you returned -- but I will rectify that mistake, and I'm quite certain I will end up the loser in that bargain."
"Sire, I cannot," Lancelot said, more desperately, but Arthur was tired of it, tired of all of it, and he cut the air with a motion from his hand.
"You will. Unless you think your king's command carries no weight?"
"You cannot command this of me," Lancelot said, almost a gasp.
"No. But I can ask it of you, as a friend." Arthur reached out, and Lancelot clasped his hand as tight as he ever had, as if Arthur was not fading before him. As if he could draw him back by this strength alone. "Make peace with it, Lancelot. If Gwen wishes to be yours, then she shall be yours, but she is no longer mine."
"As you wish," Lancelot said. He did not let go of Arthur's hand.
"I had thought to entrust Merlin to you as well, but he will require more management than one man can give," Arthur said, smiling.
"I think perhaps you can safely entrust him to Gwaine's care," Lancelot said quietly. "And I will look after him, as well."
A pang of longing passed through Arthur's heart. He had always suspected there was something between Gwaine and Merlin, or at the very least, that Gwaine cared for Merlin far beyond simple friendship. It had been none of his business; he had tried not to look, for fear he might actually see.
It was complicated, or had seemed so, once. Now, it seemed very easy. Merlin was not his; Merlin had never been his. It was not his right to choose what path Merlin would take. He could only make his feelings plain to all involved.
Arthur coughed, wincing at the way his body ached with each tensing of the muscles. "Gwaine needs no instruction from me on that point."
"No," Lancelot said slowly, "but perhaps he needs permission."
"What? Merlin is..." Arthur broke off, suddenly, understanding entirely what Lancelot was trying to say. He remembered the look on Merlin's face when Arthur had fallen. He remembered his own stirrings of tenderness, when he had understood what a fool he had been. Gwaine, unlike both Arthur and Merlin, was apparently no fool at all.
"It is soon to be a moot point," Arthur said, instead of belaboring a useless regret.
"Sire," Lancelot said, the word laden with fear. "You must not give up."
"Lancelot, my strength is failing. I can feel it. Even now, it is difficult for me to lift my head, much less keep my eyes open. I do not think the further verdict of the Escetian healer is required."
"I won't believe it," Lancelot said.
"That is why you're a knight of Camelot," Arthur said. "Because you have faith. Because you stand true." Arthur squeezed his hand, then released it. "Stand true with me now. And send in the others. One at a time, if you please."
**
They came in an endless progression, his small inner circle. Percival, to whom Arthur gave a treasured sword. Elyan, to whom Arthur gave land, and who wept, unable to hide his grief. Arthur felt strangely detached from it, as though their pain could not touch his own.
Gwaine did not weep, but his misery was clear the moment Arthur broached the subject of Merlin.
"Sire, should we be speaking of such matters now?" Gwaine said, shifting uneasily. He knelt by Arthur's bedside, worry written plainly in every line of his face. "You should save your strength."
"Gwaine, all too often I have put off 'such things' until it was too late. And now here we are." Arthur winced as he stretched gingerly, adjusting his position in the bed. There was no longer a comfortable position in which to sit or lay, and so he sighed and gave up the effort.
"I haven't thanked you yet," Gwaine said, a useless attempt to change the subject, as far as Arthur was concerned. "You saved my life."
Arthur smiled. "It was little enough repayment for the many times you have shown me loyalty. Even before you thought I was worthy of it."
Gwaine rubbed at his neck in embarrassment, then hissed, having forgotten momentarily about the bandaged wound there. Arthur chuckled. "I know your loyalties have always been with Merlin, out of friendship. But you have been true to your vows of knighthood, and one of the best of my men, Gwaine. Thank you."
"This is all wrong," Gwaine said. "Sire, it should have been my sacrifice, for you -- not yours, for me."
"It was meant to be this way," Arthur answered. "No one can predict the time of their death. Perhaps I was meant to fall. Perhaps you have a great destiny, Gwaine."
"Unlikely," Gwaine muttered. He met Arthur's eyes. "Sire, if there is anything I can do, name it."
"Then let us come back to the subject of Merlin," Arthur said at once, ignoring Gwaine's sigh. "He will need someone to ground him. To take care of him, until he makes a decision about where his path will take him. I am tasking you with this." Arthur swallowed, then said the words he had not even thought to himself before that moment. "He is precious to me. Do this, for your king."
"I would do it regardless," Gwaine said, ever direct. "But I will do as you ask." He clasped Arthur's wrist, his grip strong and careful, and Arthur put his hand over Gwaine's for the briefest of moments before withdrawing.
It was a short conversation, but adequate. Merlin would not be alone, and would not be left without a position or care. Gwaine would see to him. This burden Arthur had not even known he carried was lifted, and he and Gwaine nodded to each other with perfect understanding.
Leon was last, and Arthur found himself considering succession. He had never given it much thought, for all the years he'd obsessed with being the perfect prince. It seemed strange he had not yet had time to consider the idea of heirs, of who would rule once he was gone. His uncle was the logical choice, but Arthur looked at Leon and wished there had been more time to groom him, to groom one from among the knights who would be ready to assume his place, in case something should befall him before he had an heir. Which, of course, it had. His planning skills left much to be desired.
"Nicely done, cabbage head," he murmured to himself, which earned a startled look from Leon.
"My lord?" he asked, his brow furrowed with puzzlement.
"Never mind." Arthur grimaced and turned slightly on his side. The pain was harsher now, more difficult to ignore, and it was starting to consume his mind with tendrils of fire. "Leon, you will need to assume the greater burden. It is you who must return to Camelot and ensure proper succession to the throne."
"Of course, sire."
"I'm entrusting you with this; you, and the others. You must have the scribe draw up the documents for my seal. Agravaine must become king. It is the only way to prevent Morgana from attempting to assert her rights as Uther's child."
"We repelled her once," Leon said, looking for all the world as if he wished he had a chance to do it again, and properly.
"Indeed. And that time may yet come again." A wave of nausea stopped Arthur, and while he struggled to regain his equilibrium, Leon hurried to the tent opening and called to the court scribe. The boy looked terrified as he approached Arthur on the cot. No doubt it was because Arthur looked like death personified.
Slowly, Arthur recited the necessary words, and gave the instructions Geoffrey would need to ensure his wishes were carried out. When it was done, the boy nodded and tucked the document into his shirt for safekeeping.
"Place a detail for protection on him at all times, Leon," Arthur said, satisfied by the determined nod Leon gave in return as he sent the boy out. "You have been an exceptional second in command," he said, clasping Leon's hand. "Do not fail me in this last duty."
"Sire," Leon said, stricken, and for a time, they sat in silence, since there was no more to be said.
"You should rest," Leon said eventually. He clasped Arthur's hand, then withdrew reluctantly.
"Yes. Send in Merlin," Arthur said.
It was likely Merlin had been hovering just outside the entire time the knights had been receiving their orders, because he stuck his face in the tent flap before Leon was even outside, their eyes meeting as Merlin set to work, getting water for Arthur, bringing an extra blanket.
Neither of those were what Arthur needed, however, and so he stilled Merlin's hands with a touch as he pulled the blanket to Arthur's chest. "Sit," Arthur said, and Merlin did, though he fussed a bit more until the blanket was exactly where he wanted it. Which, now that Arthur had time to reflect, was usually how Merlin did things; not clumsily, but carefully, with an eye toward Arthur's comfort. It was stunning, how much Arthur had willfully overlooked.
Merlin perched at the edge of the cot, his worried gaze fixed on Arthur's abdomen, so Arthur decided to take advantage of Merlin's distraction, and for once, he looked his fill. Merlin's face was smudged with dirt; there were tiny flakes of mud in his hair. A small, shallow scrape grazed his left cheek, untended, and dots of blood had welled and dried there. His left hand -- the one resting on Arthur's chest, now -- was bruised, the knuckles slightly swollen.
In short, Merlin was a mess, and to Arthur, he had never looked more beautiful.
He snorted softly to himself. Just like him, to turn ridiculous and sentimental at the time he could least afford it. Or perhaps, this was the only time he ever could afford it. There was nothing left to lose, after all. Time, the most precious of all things, and one of the few things a king could not control, was slipping away from him. Soon, it would be too late.
Arthur reached down and took hold of Merlin's hand, pressing it to his chest. "Merlin," he said softly. He rubbed his thumb across Merlin's wrist, and Merlin's gaze snapped to his face. "You have been a faithful servant to me, and a true friend. It's for this reason I never acted on what I feel for you."
"What you feel..." The look on Merlin's face would have been comical, at any other time. "I don't understand."
Arthur waited the brief moment it took Merlin to work it through, and then he said, "I saw in your eyes today, on the battlefield, that you feel the same. You need not confirm it; I ask nothing of you. I only wanted to--"
"Arthur!" Merlin said, through gritted teeth. He was crying, Arthur realized, in the way angry people have of crying without really being aware, tears slipping down his face unnoticed. "Arthur, you insufferable prat." He wiped his tears with both hands, heedless of the wet mess he made of his face. "You wait until you're dying to say something?"
"Well, it wouldn't do me much good to wait until tomorrow, now would it?"
Merlin peered at him with an expression wavering between anger and anguish, as if Arthur was a particularly annoying conundrum someone had dropped in his lap and told him to solve immediately. Arthur could sympathize. Now that he wouldn't have another opportunity to do so, he found he wanted to catalog each of Merlin's terribly irritating expressions, and all the emotional ones besides. All the times Merlin had called him names, or begged him to listen (something he was particularly inept at; it seemed as though the mere word 'listen' was capable of shuttering Arthur's ears), or seemed on the verge of tears for some hurt the world had inflicted -- Arthur wanted them all back.
It dawned on him, slowly, that he didn't need them. He could remember them all, every nuance of them. Merlin was tender-hearted, and had shown his heart to Arthur even when a lesser man would hide what he felt, would shrink away from telling his king the truth. It was those moments, most of all, which flooded Arthur's mind.
He raised Merlin's hand and pressed a kiss to the pulse at his wrist, thrilling to the sensation of it quickening beneath his lips. Merlin looked stricken; not the best reaction Arthur had ever had to a kiss. "Merlin," he whispered, in an entirely different tone. He reached up with his free hand and slid it around Merlin's neck, pulling gently, until Merlin was close enough, and then he touched his lips to Merlin's, holding nothing back.
Merlin opened to him slowly, as Arthur deepened the kiss, and suddenly Merlin met him with equal hunger. Arthur wanted all of him, or as much as he could have for now, and he curled his hand in Merlin's hair, bringing him even closer. They kissed until Merlin drew back to pull in a ragged breath, and Arthur carded a hand through his hair.
"You have dreadful timing," Merlin said, his eyes shining with the emotion Arthur had ignored for so long.
"So I've been told." Arthur smiled, filled with a satisfied joy, and patted the blankets. "Stay here with me a while."
Merlin frowned. "I don't want to hurt you."
"Impossible."
"The knights will see," Merlin said, though every line of his body seemed to be leaning toward Arthur. "They'll know."
"Then let them see," Arthur said. "There is nothing here to see that they don't already know." Arthur caught Merlin's gaze, held it. "I will have you here, on this night."
Merlin nodded slowly, accepting the reality of it, Arthur could see. There was grief in his eyes, but Merlin was strong. He had always been strong. He had always been what Arthur needed, even when Arthur had not been certain what was right.
Merlin lifted the blankets and fitted himself to Arthur's side, in the curve of his arm, awkward in the small space until Arthur shifted carefully and then they were locked together, warm and comfortable. Merlin's head rested on Arthur's chest, and it was as close to contented as Arthur thought he had ever felt. So strange, that it should be now, when he was hours away from leaving this world.
"Don't leave," he said to Merlin, who lifted his head and kissed Arthur fiercely in response.
"I will never leave your side," Merlin said softly, a strange, determined expression on his face.
Arthur nodded and closed his eyes. His strength was fading more quickly. If he slept, he could steal a few more moments with Merlin, and nothing seemed more important, now.
**
Arthur rose slowly from sleep, blinking his eyes open in the darkness of the tent. The candles had been extinguished, and Merlin's warmth was no longer pressed against his side. He felt its absence keenly.
The wound, however, was worsening. Pain clawed at him from inside his body, searing and incessant. He drew in a harsh breath and lifted his chin to glance down his body. The sudden realization that he could see, that the tent was awash in a strange blue light, triggered a memory for him: climbing the sheer walls of a cave to pluck a tiny flower from its perch.
He turned his head, and found Merlin kneeling beside the cot, a glowing ball of light in his hand and a look of sorrowful apology on his face. "I can't wait any longer," Merlin said softly. "Gaius won't be in time."
Like the thunder of a waterfall cascading toward the rocks, a thousand questions resolved themselves in Arthur's mind -- impossible escapes, injuries he should not have survived, and so much more. He had always suspected both Merlin and Gaius of small enchantments, spells worked for the good of others, and he had turned a blind eye. It was a healer's job to heal, and Arthur would be damned if he'd interfere with it. But this...this was so much more than he had imagined.
He reached out and cupped his hand underneath Merlin's, transfixed by the ball of light. He remembered this -- the sensation of being watched over, cared for, helped in a moment where he could not help himself. Tendrils of light skittered out and wrapped around his wrist, soft and pleasant, and Merlin drew in a sharp breath. Arthur drew his hand back, running his fingertips down the back of Merlin's hand as he did so.
There were a thousand conversations they could have had about this, once. Conversations that ended in Merlin banished, or imprisoned in the dungeons. Arguments that might have ended in Merlin's death, or in Arthur's disgrace for refusing to send him there. Deep down, Arthur knew he would never have allowed Merlin to suffer for this. The hatred of magic Uther had tried to drill into him had simply failed to take root as it should. Arthur had always considered it a spectacular failing on his part.
Until now.
The beauty of the light captivated him, and the ball of power appeared to be growing in Merlin's hand, slowly filling up with light.
"Arthur," Merlin said. "I'm not certain I have enough power to heal you. Whatever happens...it was worth it."
"What do you mean, whatever happens?" Through the fog of pain, a horrible suspicion began to dawn on Arthur, and he said, "Merlin, no."
In answer, Merlin leaned across Arthur's body and kissed him, slowly, in such a tender and deliberate manner Arthur knew the answer to his question. He reached a hand to push Merlin back, but Merlin was already in motion. He pushed his hands together, and began to speak words Arthur didn't recognize. The sound of them raised the hair on Arthur's neck. Merlin directed the ball of light toward Arthur, and then his hands were on Arthur's body, and his magic -- his magic --
Arthur arched off the bed, a soundless cry arrested in his throat, as Merlin's eyes transformed to a glittering gold, and then a shout did escape Arthur as his body knitted itself together at Merlin's command, at Merlin's will.
He could hear a commotion outside, but all Arthur could see was the limitless blue of Merlin's eyes, consumed by gold. Joy spread through him, and he understood it to be Merlin's joy, Merlin's sense of victory, that Arthur would live.
It was the last thing he knew before darkness claimed him once again.
on to part 2