Fic | Merlin/Arthur | nourish me and never leave
Merlin | Merlin/Arthur | PG13 | Warning: Character death
The day of the crown prince's birth is like a happy omen itself, the air warm and fragrant and the sun's rays beating high and unobstructed from the sky. The light hits the stones of the castle and Merlin sees vibrant colours and laughing, running shapes in the twinkle of bouncing beams, sprites hiding in the luminosity and wishing well for the court.
The baby is a long-awaited, precious gift. For the court, and for the whole kingdom. The queen cries tears of joy, and the king looks as close to confounded as Merlin has ever seen him.
When the queen mother sleeps away her exhaustion and the prince starts to fuss in the crib next to her, blue eyes blinking and mouth opening in preparation for a wail, Merlin puts away his staff and picks him up, and his magic gives a jolt in his chest, a fanfare of undeniable rightness, of promise for a beautiful thriving Albion. The baby quietens down and stares intensely, cocooned in Merlin's arms, in his magic. Merlin gives a silent pledge of protection and loyalty and love.
His king has arrived.
+
Merlin is at a very, very critical junction of potion-making when he catches the pitter-patter of steps rushing up the stairwell. A moment later, his door bursts open and hits the wall next to it with a resounding bang. The potion, too volatile not to go up in a small explosion at the vibration, paints both the front of Merlin's robe and his beard with foamy, blueish substance.
"Hi, Merlin," the prince grins wide and happy, wholly unrepentant even when Merlin glowers at him.
"What do you mean, hi, Merlin, young prince? You have caused me to ruin a day's work!"
"I would apologize, but my father the king has told me royalty never does so," Arthur says solemnly. Merlin has half a mind to extend his magic and make the boy hang upside down in the air. Come to think of it, Merlin did that once, and Arthur seemed to enjoy it, whooping and laughing. The brat.
Merlin keeps glowering, until Arthur steps close and takes his hand. "I could've been more cautious," the prince concedes, far too polite and tactful for a six-year-old; true royalty. "Now, since your potion is sadly gone, how about taking a break?"
Merlin loses his scowl, powerless under the force of Arthur's twinkling blue eyes. "I suppose you have a proposition for alternative use of my valuable time, young prince?"
"Indeed I do, Merlin," Arthur agrees magnanimously. "More transformation lessons, I was thinking - if that is alright with you, oh wise tutor."
The flattering, devious, infectiously happy brat. Like Merlin can deny him anything.
+
The prince has only barely turned ten when he starts asking questions. Not questions in the usual line of questions, about the sky and the earth, and about life and the core of men; but questions about the smoothening skin of his tutor's face and hands, like a mask peeling away, unveiling sharp cheekbones and clean strong line of jaw. Still, the enquiry doesn't concern those things directly, though, or the mystery of how Merlin seems to be taller now, his back straight without the aid of his staff.
"What happened to your beard, Merlin," Arthur asks instead, one day when they're walking in the garden, and the words are light but Arthur's stare is not. Like Merlin knows the future and the past, his king sees far more than appropriate for his age, for the glow of innocence about him.
"It fell off," Merlin attempts to grin, tightening his raised hand to a fist and then suddenly fanning out the fingers, "puff, just like that, like magic."
Arthur, the serious golden little prince, doesn't smile at the weak joke, and Merlin stops grinning, afraid suddenly, aching to shield but unable to do so, not permitted to coddle; the longing starkly at odds with his purpose here, with teaching, and honing Arthur into a blade worthy of his future kingdom, worthy of the worship with which his land and his people will one day kneel at his feet.
"You're not old as you used to be," Arthur continues finally, when Merlin keeps silent, and the statement is a paradox and wholly out of place in the mouth of this child, yet they both know it is true.
Merlin stops, almost places his hand on top of Arthur's shiny hair, but aborts the movement suddenly; this isn't a boy asking trivialities of his teacher, this is Merlin's king demanding an honest answer.
"There are certain flowers that first bloom, bloom for a long time, and then enter a long stage of hibernation. They lose their colour, and shrivel up and turn hard and brittle. During that time, you can't even tell for sure if the flower is sleeping or truly dead," Merlin says, and looks at Arthur, wonders whether he's old enough for this dryly harsh version of the truth.
Arthur's eyes gleam with intelligence and worry.
"Then, one day, the stalk of the flower begins to strengthen, to fill with moisture and life, and the leaves turn green again and the blossoms open and raise their faces towards the sun."
The total understanding sweeps Arthur's face, and suddenly he's just a boy once more, grabs Merlin around his waist and hides his expression into the chest of Merlin's tunic. Merlin hugs him back, battling to push back the cold wind of foresight.
+
Merlin is in his tower, reading and making notes, when his door burst open and hits the wall with a loud thud. The sense of déjà-vu is unmistakable.
Lifting his gaze from his tomes, Merlin sees Arthur leaning on the doorway, tall and powerful and grinning, flushed from jogging up the stairs, and Merlin-
Merlin unexpectedly finds his eyes fixed on the solid line of slender muscles; on the loose, ready stance of a fighter; on slim fingers and soft mouth and moist, curling hair at the nape of Arthur's neck; and it's all frightening, a physical revelation, that Arthur has become a man-
"Hey, Merlin," Arthur starts, like over a decade earlier, but his voice is husky-low and it makes a line of heat shiver through Merlin, up his back and down his chest to settle in the pit of his stomach; and Merlin, quite genuinely, panics.
"What are you doing here?" Merlin wheezes. "You're the crown prince, heir to the throne, you can't go running around the castle like peasant! If you need to talk to me, you summon me!"
Arthur looks taken aback for a second; then he grins, like they're sharing a joke. "Right, because it's not as if I've come up here a million times before-"
"That-is-not-the-point," Merlin grates out, tearing at his hair, "you're of age now, you're going to have to start taking your position and your responsibilities seriously!"
Merlin knows how unfair his words are even as he's uttering them; Arthur looks as if Merlin has just slapped him, vulnerable and hurt for only a second before his jaw tightens and he turns on his heel, and strides out.
Merlin is left standing in the middle of his empty rooms, breathing too fast, the brief row echoing in the air around him. He can bear the guilty twisting in his chest only for a beat or two before he takes off after Arthur; and it flashes through his mind how badly he's failed, how completely he has lost his objectivity, how the united Albion will never be his only goal anymore; the greater good eclipsed by the love that he feels for Arthur - not the once and future king.
He catches up to Arthur somewhere halfway down the long staircase, not because he has a hope in hell of being faster, but simply because he mentally throws up an invisible barrier, cutting off Arthur's way.
He knows Arthur hears him coming, but he doesn't turn when Merlin stops behind him; his shoulders are tense and his hands rolled into white-knuckled fists.
"I'm sorry," Merlin says, "I didn't mean that."
Arthur still doesn't turn to face him.
"I really didn't. I know you'll be the best king Albion will ever have. It wasn't about you."
"What was it about then, Merlin?"
Arthur still has his back to him, but the angry strain of his muscles is loosening, and his voice is long-suffering, like it's Merlin who often causes him headache, and not the other way around.
Merlin is silent for a long while. "Nothing you need to worry about," he says finally, in a smaller voice than either of them is used to. Arthur swirls around, impatient or incensed, and Merlin swallows and looks to the floor. Please don't push it, he thinks. Please don't.
Arthur waits a moment longer. "Come on," he then says, gruff, "let's go for a ride. There are rumours of a gryphon on a killing spree by the northern border."
Merlin lifts his head and smiles carefully, and Arthur nods back. For now, his eyes warn Merlin. For now I'll let you keep your secrets.
+
The feast is in honour of Arthur's twentieth birthday. The king and the queen radiate pride and gratitude. At their side, there is no longer the ancient court sorcerer who has counselled the pair for all of king Uther's long reign; in his stead, there is a clean-shaven, black-haired youth - maybe an adviser or a companion to the prince, the people muse.
A son of one of the king's allies especially sets his sights on the slim, unusual-looking young man. As the night and the revelry drag on, Hadrian draws next to Merlin, introducing himself, offering a clever compliment, making Merlin blush and flounder. The man is very nice; handsome, too; and attentive in a very appropriate manner. Yet Merlin can't imagine taking the guest up on his subtle offer; the colour of his hair off, his eyes hazel, not blue.
Even while Merlin is trying to decide on a courteous way to express his disinterest, there is suddenly a hand pressed against the small of his back, the heat of someone's body hovering too-close, the familiar scent heralding Arthur's presence.
"Excuse me," Merlin has never heard Arthur's voice sound like that, icy and threatening, "I need to borrow Merlin for a moment."
Hadrian blanches, fumbles back a step, "Of course, your highness."
Arthur looks coldly at the man, committing face to memory, before grabbing Merlin's wrist and gently tugging him away. Merlin would protest, perhaps, at the treatment that claims ownership, but his body hopefully reads all the wrong signs in Arthur's touch, making him feel hot and nervous and excited and tongue-tied, all at once.
When Arthur lets go of Merlin's wrist in the hallway outside only to round on him and take his face between his wide, rough palms, Merlin's breathing speeds up, not the wrong signs after all, going through his mind, as Arthur brings his face close, lips almost touching lips, and says,
"You didn't want that, did you?"
No, Merlin thinks, his throat working but no words materialising, didn't, couldn't.
"What do you want, Merlin?"
And Merlin finds he doesn't need speech to answer Arthur this.
+
Years pass with happiness and pleasure and adventure. Even Uther's death, and his wife's subsequent fading away, cannot mute the joy that rings throughout Camelot at the ascension of King Arthur, the brave, the strong, the just. Merlin feels satisfaction in the earth itself, in the passing of seasons and the growth and vitality of the kingdom of Albion.
Then, though. Then finally.
Destiny catches up with them.
+
"Merlin," Arthur gasps. His chest is rising and falling rapidly with the pain, with the attempt to hide it. Merlin's eyes are filmy, he can't see properly. It's dark in the tent.
"Merlin," Arthur says again, an exasperated tone creeping in; he is struggling to lift his arm and reach out. Merlin is right by him in three steps, dropping on his knees next to the royal cot. He takes Arthur's hand, gripping tight. Arthur grips back, relaxes incrementally. Thank you, he mouths, facing the shadowed canvas roof of the tent, eyes closed, face and throat shining with sweat, stains of blood here and there on his clothes and his skin, bright red and rusty brown.
Merlin feels a scream burning in his throat, a hoarse voiceless testament of grief, his chest tight with suppressing it.
Arthur seems to sense something, or there's a lull in the burn of his wound; his eyes open and when he finds Merlin's eyes, his gaze is clear. One side of his mouth rises in a caricature of the smirk Merlin loves so much. Merlin can't look away even to hide it when the wetness in his eyes spills over and makes two shining tracks on his cheeks.
Arthur's expressions gentles, turns wistful. Not for himself, but for Merlin, Merlin realises, and wants to tear down, burn up; make the forest go up in flames, call down lightning and thunder and raze everything to ground.
"Come, now," is all Arthur says, extricating his hand from Merlin's and reaching to trail his thumb down the trail of tears, then the bitten-sore flesh of Merlin's lower lip. He smiles, small and intimate, and Merlin can't help but grasp his hand again, press it against his lips.
Arthur's hand is calloused, streaked with blood and dirt from days of fighting, but Merlin doesn't taste the soil or the iron, only the crushing sense of loss, looming too near.
Next to Arthur's big, strong hands, Merlin's look white and delicate - skin young and unblemished. If you looked at his face, you'd think the sorcerer was not a day over sixteen. Only if you really look into Merlin's eyes will you have an inkling of the truth, and not many of them do that. Not many of them see that deep. Only Arthur. Always, only Arthur.
Arthur's thoughts seem to travel in the same direction, and he looks up from the juxtaposition of their hands. He smiles again.
"How young will you become? Will the castle be plagued by an impertinent brat, hazardous to all and sundry around him with his childish bursts of experimental magic?"
Merlin swallows. Arthur sounds-so damn hopeful, like already seeing a beloved child running amok in the freedom and safety of a prosperous court. Like he cannot fathom anything changing in his absence; like he cannot imagine Camelot broken.
Merlin can't destroy that faith; can't tell Arthur that without him, there will be no laughter, no justice, no play, no Albion.
He can't lie, either, not to his king. He bends down, touches his mouth to Arthur's, opens his lips just enough to taste; to linger. Arthur sighs into the kiss.
Sighs, and then his grip slackens in Merlin's hand.
Merlin squeezes his eyes shut, leaning his forehead against Arthur's chest. He doesn't hear the heart. He doesn't hear Arthur's heart beating. Arthur's skin is cold and clammy, and his hand in Merlin's is limp.
Merlin throws back his head, and screams. And screams. And screams.
Outside, the wind picks up, forcing knights and squires to their feet, and the blue of the sky is lost behind darkness of storm clouds.
+
"I told you once, some flowers bloom and hibernate, bloom and hibernate," Merlin speaks against Arthur's skin. His voice is rough, almost gone. The sun has winked out. Somewhere, there is a vigil for the fallen king.
"You think I will keep on blooming and hibernating, my dear?"
Arthur is beautiful even in stillness. Merlin has never felt alone with him.
"You are my water, Arthur. Without you, I can only sleep. And wait."
The day of the crown prince's birth is like a happy omen itself, the air warm and fragrant and the sun's rays beating high and unobstructed from the sky. The light hits the stones of the castle and Merlin sees vibrant colours and laughing, running shapes in the twinkle of bouncing beams, sprites hiding in the luminosity and wishing well for the court.
The baby is a long-awaited, precious gift. For the court, and for the whole kingdom. The queen cries tears of joy, and the king looks as close to confounded as Merlin has ever seen him.
When the queen mother sleeps away her exhaustion and the prince starts to fuss in the crib next to her, blue eyes blinking and mouth opening in preparation for a wail, Merlin puts away his staff and picks him up, and his magic gives a jolt in his chest, a fanfare of undeniable rightness, of promise for a beautiful thriving Albion. The baby quietens down and stares intensely, cocooned in Merlin's arms, in his magic. Merlin gives a silent pledge of protection and loyalty and love.
His king has arrived.
+
Merlin is at a very, very critical junction of potion-making when he catches the pitter-patter of steps rushing up the stairwell. A moment later, his door bursts open and hits the wall next to it with a resounding bang. The potion, too volatile not to go up in a small explosion at the vibration, paints both the front of Merlin's robe and his beard with foamy, blueish substance.
"Hi, Merlin," the prince grins wide and happy, wholly unrepentant even when Merlin glowers at him.
"What do you mean, hi, Merlin, young prince? You have caused me to ruin a day's work!"
"I would apologize, but my father the king has told me royalty never does so," Arthur says solemnly. Merlin has half a mind to extend his magic and make the boy hang upside down in the air. Come to think of it, Merlin did that once, and Arthur seemed to enjoy it, whooping and laughing. The brat.
Merlin keeps glowering, until Arthur steps close and takes his hand. "I could've been more cautious," the prince concedes, far too polite and tactful for a six-year-old; true royalty. "Now, since your potion is sadly gone, how about taking a break?"
Merlin loses his scowl, powerless under the force of Arthur's twinkling blue eyes. "I suppose you have a proposition for alternative use of my valuable time, young prince?"
"Indeed I do, Merlin," Arthur agrees magnanimously. "More transformation lessons, I was thinking - if that is alright with you, oh wise tutor."
The flattering, devious, infectiously happy brat. Like Merlin can deny him anything.
+
The prince has only barely turned ten when he starts asking questions. Not questions in the usual line of questions, about the sky and the earth, and about life and the core of men; but questions about the smoothening skin of his tutor's face and hands, like a mask peeling away, unveiling sharp cheekbones and clean strong line of jaw. Still, the enquiry doesn't concern those things directly, though, or the mystery of how Merlin seems to be taller now, his back straight without the aid of his staff.
"What happened to your beard, Merlin," Arthur asks instead, one day when they're walking in the garden, and the words are light but Arthur's stare is not. Like Merlin knows the future and the past, his king sees far more than appropriate for his age, for the glow of innocence about him.
"It fell off," Merlin attempts to grin, tightening his raised hand to a fist and then suddenly fanning out the fingers, "puff, just like that, like magic."
Arthur, the serious golden little prince, doesn't smile at the weak joke, and Merlin stops grinning, afraid suddenly, aching to shield but unable to do so, not permitted to coddle; the longing starkly at odds with his purpose here, with teaching, and honing Arthur into a blade worthy of his future kingdom, worthy of the worship with which his land and his people will one day kneel at his feet.
"You're not old as you used to be," Arthur continues finally, when Merlin keeps silent, and the statement is a paradox and wholly out of place in the mouth of this child, yet they both know it is true.
Merlin stops, almost places his hand on top of Arthur's shiny hair, but aborts the movement suddenly; this isn't a boy asking trivialities of his teacher, this is Merlin's king demanding an honest answer.
"There are certain flowers that first bloom, bloom for a long time, and then enter a long stage of hibernation. They lose their colour, and shrivel up and turn hard and brittle. During that time, you can't even tell for sure if the flower is sleeping or truly dead," Merlin says, and looks at Arthur, wonders whether he's old enough for this dryly harsh version of the truth.
Arthur's eyes gleam with intelligence and worry.
"Then, one day, the stalk of the flower begins to strengthen, to fill with moisture and life, and the leaves turn green again and the blossoms open and raise their faces towards the sun."
The total understanding sweeps Arthur's face, and suddenly he's just a boy once more, grabs Merlin around his waist and hides his expression into the chest of Merlin's tunic. Merlin hugs him back, battling to push back the cold wind of foresight.
+
Merlin is in his tower, reading and making notes, when his door burst open and hits the wall with a loud thud. The sense of déjà-vu is unmistakable.
Lifting his gaze from his tomes, Merlin sees Arthur leaning on the doorway, tall and powerful and grinning, flushed from jogging up the stairs, and Merlin-
Merlin unexpectedly finds his eyes fixed on the solid line of slender muscles; on the loose, ready stance of a fighter; on slim fingers and soft mouth and moist, curling hair at the nape of Arthur's neck; and it's all frightening, a physical revelation, that Arthur has become a man-
"Hey, Merlin," Arthur starts, like over a decade earlier, but his voice is husky-low and it makes a line of heat shiver through Merlin, up his back and down his chest to settle in the pit of his stomach; and Merlin, quite genuinely, panics.
"What are you doing here?" Merlin wheezes. "You're the crown prince, heir to the throne, you can't go running around the castle like peasant! If you need to talk to me, you summon me!"
Arthur looks taken aback for a second; then he grins, like they're sharing a joke. "Right, because it's not as if I've come up here a million times before-"
"That-is-not-the-point," Merlin grates out, tearing at his hair, "you're of age now, you're going to have to start taking your position and your responsibilities seriously!"
Merlin knows how unfair his words are even as he's uttering them; Arthur looks as if Merlin has just slapped him, vulnerable and hurt for only a second before his jaw tightens and he turns on his heel, and strides out.
Merlin is left standing in the middle of his empty rooms, breathing too fast, the brief row echoing in the air around him. He can bear the guilty twisting in his chest only for a beat or two before he takes off after Arthur; and it flashes through his mind how badly he's failed, how completely he has lost his objectivity, how the united Albion will never be his only goal anymore; the greater good eclipsed by the love that he feels for Arthur - not the once and future king.
He catches up to Arthur somewhere halfway down the long staircase, not because he has a hope in hell of being faster, but simply because he mentally throws up an invisible barrier, cutting off Arthur's way.
He knows Arthur hears him coming, but he doesn't turn when Merlin stops behind him; his shoulders are tense and his hands rolled into white-knuckled fists.
"I'm sorry," Merlin says, "I didn't mean that."
Arthur still doesn't turn to face him.
"I really didn't. I know you'll be the best king Albion will ever have. It wasn't about you."
"What was it about then, Merlin?"
Arthur still has his back to him, but the angry strain of his muscles is loosening, and his voice is long-suffering, like it's Merlin who often causes him headache, and not the other way around.
Merlin is silent for a long while. "Nothing you need to worry about," he says finally, in a smaller voice than either of them is used to. Arthur swirls around, impatient or incensed, and Merlin swallows and looks to the floor. Please don't push it, he thinks. Please don't.
Arthur waits a moment longer. "Come on," he then says, gruff, "let's go for a ride. There are rumours of a gryphon on a killing spree by the northern border."
Merlin lifts his head and smiles carefully, and Arthur nods back. For now, his eyes warn Merlin. For now I'll let you keep your secrets.
+
The feast is in honour of Arthur's twentieth birthday. The king and the queen radiate pride and gratitude. At their side, there is no longer the ancient court sorcerer who has counselled the pair for all of king Uther's long reign; in his stead, there is a clean-shaven, black-haired youth - maybe an adviser or a companion to the prince, the people muse.
A son of one of the king's allies especially sets his sights on the slim, unusual-looking young man. As the night and the revelry drag on, Hadrian draws next to Merlin, introducing himself, offering a clever compliment, making Merlin blush and flounder. The man is very nice; handsome, too; and attentive in a very appropriate manner. Yet Merlin can't imagine taking the guest up on his subtle offer; the colour of his hair off, his eyes hazel, not blue.
Even while Merlin is trying to decide on a courteous way to express his disinterest, there is suddenly a hand pressed against the small of his back, the heat of someone's body hovering too-close, the familiar scent heralding Arthur's presence.
"Excuse me," Merlin has never heard Arthur's voice sound like that, icy and threatening, "I need to borrow Merlin for a moment."
Hadrian blanches, fumbles back a step, "Of course, your highness."
Arthur looks coldly at the man, committing face to memory, before grabbing Merlin's wrist and gently tugging him away. Merlin would protest, perhaps, at the treatment that claims ownership, but his body hopefully reads all the wrong signs in Arthur's touch, making him feel hot and nervous and excited and tongue-tied, all at once.
When Arthur lets go of Merlin's wrist in the hallway outside only to round on him and take his face between his wide, rough palms, Merlin's breathing speeds up, not the wrong signs after all, going through his mind, as Arthur brings his face close, lips almost touching lips, and says,
"You didn't want that, did you?"
No, Merlin thinks, his throat working but no words materialising, didn't, couldn't.
"What do you want, Merlin?"
And Merlin finds he doesn't need speech to answer Arthur this.
+
Years pass with happiness and pleasure and adventure. Even Uther's death, and his wife's subsequent fading away, cannot mute the joy that rings throughout Camelot at the ascension of King Arthur, the brave, the strong, the just. Merlin feels satisfaction in the earth itself, in the passing of seasons and the growth and vitality of the kingdom of Albion.
Then, though. Then finally.
Destiny catches up with them.
+
"Merlin," Arthur gasps. His chest is rising and falling rapidly with the pain, with the attempt to hide it. Merlin's eyes are filmy, he can't see properly. It's dark in the tent.
"Merlin," Arthur says again, an exasperated tone creeping in; he is struggling to lift his arm and reach out. Merlin is right by him in three steps, dropping on his knees next to the royal cot. He takes Arthur's hand, gripping tight. Arthur grips back, relaxes incrementally. Thank you, he mouths, facing the shadowed canvas roof of the tent, eyes closed, face and throat shining with sweat, stains of blood here and there on his clothes and his skin, bright red and rusty brown.
Merlin feels a scream burning in his throat, a hoarse voiceless testament of grief, his chest tight with suppressing it.
Arthur seems to sense something, or there's a lull in the burn of his wound; his eyes open and when he finds Merlin's eyes, his gaze is clear. One side of his mouth rises in a caricature of the smirk Merlin loves so much. Merlin can't look away even to hide it when the wetness in his eyes spills over and makes two shining tracks on his cheeks.
Arthur's expressions gentles, turns wistful. Not for himself, but for Merlin, Merlin realises, and wants to tear down, burn up; make the forest go up in flames, call down lightning and thunder and raze everything to ground.
"Come, now," is all Arthur says, extricating his hand from Merlin's and reaching to trail his thumb down the trail of tears, then the bitten-sore flesh of Merlin's lower lip. He smiles, small and intimate, and Merlin can't help but grasp his hand again, press it against his lips.
Arthur's hand is calloused, streaked with blood and dirt from days of fighting, but Merlin doesn't taste the soil or the iron, only the crushing sense of loss, looming too near.
Next to Arthur's big, strong hands, Merlin's look white and delicate - skin young and unblemished. If you looked at his face, you'd think the sorcerer was not a day over sixteen. Only if you really look into Merlin's eyes will you have an inkling of the truth, and not many of them do that. Not many of them see that deep. Only Arthur. Always, only Arthur.
Arthur's thoughts seem to travel in the same direction, and he looks up from the juxtaposition of their hands. He smiles again.
"How young will you become? Will the castle be plagued by an impertinent brat, hazardous to all and sundry around him with his childish bursts of experimental magic?"
Merlin swallows. Arthur sounds-so damn hopeful, like already seeing a beloved child running amok in the freedom and safety of a prosperous court. Like he cannot fathom anything changing in his absence; like he cannot imagine Camelot broken.
Merlin can't destroy that faith; can't tell Arthur that without him, there will be no laughter, no justice, no play, no Albion.
He can't lie, either, not to his king. He bends down, touches his mouth to Arthur's, opens his lips just enough to taste; to linger. Arthur sighs into the kiss.
Sighs, and then his grip slackens in Merlin's hand.
Merlin squeezes his eyes shut, leaning his forehead against Arthur's chest. He doesn't hear the heart. He doesn't hear Arthur's heart beating. Arthur's skin is cold and clammy, and his hand in Merlin's is limp.
Merlin throws back his head, and screams. And screams. And screams.
Outside, the wind picks up, forcing knights and squires to their feet, and the blue of the sky is lost behind darkness of storm clouds.
+
"I told you once, some flowers bloom and hibernate, bloom and hibernate," Merlin speaks against Arthur's skin. His voice is rough, almost gone. The sun has winked out. Somewhere, there is a vigil for the fallen king.
"You think I will keep on blooming and hibernating, my dear?"
Arthur is beautiful even in stillness. Merlin has never felt alone with him.
"You are my water, Arthur. Without you, I can only sleep. And wait."