Ficcyness at LAST.
Title: Recklessness
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: MerlinxArthur
Length: 3,531 words.
Rating: PG-13 for implied slashy ending and one swear.
Status: Complete... hopefully.
Notes: Thank you to lovely betas fortassetu and princessezzy , your comments are always much love. I'm still a bit concerned it's nonsensical, but what can you do? *shrugs*
If there was one thing Merlin had learnt about Arthur, it was that he was very good at getting captured.
He trudged through swamp and mud and more than one river, muttering to himself all the way. He actually kicked a rock once, and it was for this reason he was limping when he reached the castle, striking against the moonlight and clouded sky, a vision of beauty against the sordid landscape.
Why was he here, and not some army of guards? This was his punishment. There was a battalion marching to the prince’s rescue, but he’d left them behind some time ago - he’d stolen out before the sun rose, and Uther (frantic for the return of his only heir, but not so frantic as to rush in before Arthur Learnt a Lesson) had delayed the troops’ dispatch to dawn. No - this was his self-inflicted punishment. It was he who had allowed Arthur to go, guardless, into the forest to hunt - and it was he who failed to raise the alarm when he didn’t return for supper.
Somewhere along the walk - perhaps when he fell into that ditch - he realised he was no tactician. Perhaps waiting till dawn would have ensured that he’d have made it through the forest without the myriad of cuts and bruises which stung with every movement, or the white-hot fire emanating from his feet which he knew would be covered in sores and blisters. But it was his servant’s duty - his prerogative; his master was captured, it was his fault, and he had to free him - and so he trudged.
He slipped beside a large grate, and was immediately disappointed - he had presumed the castle’s layout would be like Camelot’s, full of secret doors and handy grates backing onto the palace, readily available for a cunning rescue. This grate was a sewer - and yet he still wheedled his way through, landing in a pile of what can only be described as shit. Arthur would have called it character building.
Arthur would have pushed him into it.
Arthur -
He did what best he could to remove the smell and the stains with magic, before trudging along again. Tumbling out of a hidden crevice, he landed actually on the feet of a guard, who swore and fell over, knocking himself out. Lucky break, Merlin thought as he stashed the guard down the sewer he’d climbed out of and continued to squelch through the palace.
It was utterly different to Camelot. Where Camelot had grand statues it had tapestries - and he was really very rubbish at hiding behind those. Where Camelot’s banquet hall was there was a grand courtyard; the prisons were some form of underground pool.
To put it simply, Merlin was hopelessly lost.
Tired, wet, miserable and above all very angry, when the sun peeked over the horizon he marched up to a guard and demanded the Prince’s release.
The guard smiled jovially. “Ah, we’ve been expecting you!”
Merlin’s eyebrows rose. Perhaps this rescuing lark was easier than it seemed. “You have?”
“Oh, yes! Right this way, sir, right this way.” He was ushered through a complex series of corridors, pausing whilst heavy wooden doors were wrenched open, his boots still sloshing swamp water, staining the stone below his tread. “Here we are, then! Just through here, if you please.”
“Right!” Merlin said, stepped through the door - and it clanged home behind him, sending tumbling down a flight of steps and landing at his prince’s feet.
Arthur opened one eye and sighed. “You really are an idiot,” he muttered.
The pit appeared to be in the middle of nowhere. The stone walls were solid and thick; cold and smooth and totally smothering any noise from outside. Time was endless; there was no window, no torch, no form of light, and no interruptions from the guards for food or water. Arthur had only spoken to him once, to proclaim he smelt like a toilet, before going back to silent, sombre sleep.
It occurred to Merlin, in a deep and horrific rush, that Arthur might be injured. “My lord?” he whispered quietly, crawling on hands and knees to rest beside the prince, who opened his eyes uneasily in the dark. This was getting beyond ridicule; if Arthur was hurt, it would only be a matter of time before infection or blood loss set in. He could not use magic; he simply could not. Whilst Uther would have Camelot believe magic was the weapon of his enemies, it was ridiculous to tie the two inexplicably together. For all Merlin knew, the lord of this castle was as narrow-minded as his King, and it would not do to get them both executed before the cavalry was given enough time to arrive.
If Arthur did die in this cellar, Merlin decided as his hand rested on his prince’s, he would not be doing it alone.
“I can’t see you, Merlin,” Arthur whispered quietly, hands fumbling into fists beside him. “I can’t see you.”
“There’s no light in here,” he murmured in reply. And quite possibly there could be rats. Merlin did not like rats.
“Are you cold?”
Merlin shook his head, before sighing into the dark. “I’m fine.”
“You’re wet.”
“I fell in a ditch.”
Arthur laughed, and for a second Merlin really did believe it had lit up the room. It teetered off, however, and the blackness returned, unwelcome. Merlin shuffled to sit beside him, trying to make out through the gloom whether there was sweat on his brow, or restrictions in his movements, or the heavy, strong tang of blood in the air. “You really are a mystery.” Merlin couldn’t help but agree.
“Do they bring you food?”
Arthur shook his head. “How long have I been here? It’s so difficult to tell.”
“I set off when I knew you were gone, and was walking till morning.”
Arthur sighed wearily. “You attempted to walk through the forests at night? You’re no more a mystery than you are an idiot.” He paused. “But you do give me hope,” he added softly, and Merlin then really did worry for his sanity or his wellbeing. Arthur was cold, and cruel, and heartless - and he was stuck in a prison fearing for his life.
Merlin stood up shakily, wincing at the sores on his feet and rolling back his shoulders. “Have you explored the room much?” He limped around in a circle, before stepping forwards with blind hands and falling flat on his face, much to Arthur’s amusement behind him.
“What have you found?” he murmured, his tone mocking as Merlin’s fingers fumbled around the shaft of wood beneath him.
“I think it’s a torch,” he called back, fingers tracing the swollen top.
“Will it burn? Then again, I don’t suppose you were clever enough to bring flint or tinder.”
Merlin wasn’t - and besides, they’d probably have ended up in the bottom of the swamp along with his dignity. But he did have the next best thing. A whispered command and it flew into life, sending rippling, dancing shadows across the room. He turned to Arthur; he was haggard, and his face was twisted in pain. “I thought as much,” he sighed, and came to his knees beside him. “Are you going to show me where, or shall I strip you until I find it?”
Arthur glared. “My arm, when they threw me down. And my leg.” Merlin shivered once in the damp, before peeling back the sticky mess of Arthur’s lower trousers.
“Could you hold this?” Arthur took the torch with his good arm, and Merlin bent close.
“Do you actually know what you’re doing?” Arthur said warily as Merlin’s fingers began to prod.
“I’m not an idiot.” A look. “Oh, shut up.” Fingers traced up to his knees; pain too intense for it to be much more than a gesture. “I could do with some water,” he said decisively, as if he expected some to appear; there was no such luck, and Arthur simply sighed. “I’ll use my scarf to set the knee straight and stop the blood flow, in case it’s broken.” Arthur’s forehead was pronounced, and Merlin bit his lip worriedly. “Am I hurting you?”
“No,” he whispered. “Not you.” His eyes fluttered closed and he moaned in the back of his throat as Merlin bound his knee; his breathing returned to normal after a few moments, and he watched as Merlin inspected his arm.
“There’s little I can do for this without water,” he sighed. “The bleeding’s stopped, it’s infection I’m more concerned by.”
“Is my father dispatching troops?”
“They were to leave at dawn,” Merlin replied, tracing the gash down to his elbow. “I chose not to accompany them.”
“And ended up here.” Merlin looked up at Arthur and smiled, his hand reaching the other’s.
“I’m glad,” he said softly, and they lapsed into silence, until Arthur softly proclaimed
“So am I.”
The first blow on the castle sent a fine shower of dust settling upon them both, twisted together for warmth in their sleep. Merlin woke first, peering up at the ceiling as Arthur roused with a hiss beside him. “The men are here,” he mumbled, wincing as he straightened out his leg.
“What will be their strategy?”
Arthur laughed. “Without me, I’m not entirely sure. They’ll probably do a lot of hammering and intimidating fireballs until I’m released or too many guards die in the process.”
“They go to all this trouble for you,” Merlin said softly, and Arthur shrugged.
“It is out of loyalty to my father, and not to me.”
“Not yet.”
“No,” Arthur agreed quietly. “Not yet.”
More dust flickered in the torchlight, and Merlin cupped it closer to his chest for protection. “If we have to run, will you be able to?”
“If we have to run, you are to leave me and not look back.”
Merlin looked at him oddly. “It is at times like these I wonder who the real idiot is.” He picked up the torch and limped across to the other side, running his fingers on cool stone. “The side is weaker here. If the blows bring down the roof, we may be able to get through.” There were the faint sounds of running feet and shouting guards, before more silence.
“Is the door made of wood?”
“As much as I could tell…” Merlin trudged up the narrow steps to the door. “Are you suggesting I set fire to it?” “It won’t catch. It’s designed not to.” Merlin wasn’t having any of that. He placed the torch on the steps by the door and made his way back down. “This is not going to work,” Arthur sighed.
“Cover your eyes,” Merlin muttered, and with a glare Arthur pushed his face into Merlin’s chest. A second command, whispered to prevent Arthur hearing the reverberations in his chest, set the door alight in a miracle of flame.
“It worked?” Arthur asked incredulously as he removed his face from Merlin’s chest.
“I do wish,” Merlin muttered as he helped Arthur to his feet, “one of these days you’d stop sounding so surprised when I’m right.” He pulled Arthur’s good arm across his shoulders and they struggled up the steps.
Outside was a tumult of clangs and smashes and running, panicking guards. They moved practically unnoticed through the castle, Merlin guiding them slowly, slowly towards where he’d come in. “Hang on,” Arthur murmured as they approached the sewer. “Go right, here.” Merlin considered propping Arthur up against the wall and investigating on his own, before his concern for him overwhelmed his need for speed and they moved in a shambling mess along the floor. They made across to a large window, a drop into the river, and Merlin shook his head and laughed.
“There is no way you’re going in there with that leg.”
Arthur sighed. “We can’t go back through your way, we’ll go straight into the fighting. We’d be much better off. The current isn’t fast and I can - ”
“You can barely walk, you idiot, you are not going in that river!” Merlin hissed, but froze as the vague sound of footsteps began moving towards them. Arthur simply looked at him, reached up to his ear and breathed.
“Trust me.”
Merlin reached open the window, pushed it out and stared into the river below. As much as he knew Arthur could swim he was horribly aware of the fact he couldn’t.
Then again, this was all about saving Arthur. And Arthur would always survive.
Arthur shuffled out onto the window and stared down at the window with a strange smile on his face - one of exhilaration. “See you at the bottom,” he grinned, and tumbled into the water.
Merlin watched him go, sighed and plummeted down with him.
The first thing he was aware of was cold, and the air being crushed from his lungs. He was becoming numb, and the surface was drifting away from his view. His arm felt weak, he couldn’t pull - he reached up to it desperately - and he was willing himself upwards, the magic tumbling through his body, shooting him to the surface, and the first breath was so brilliant, so magnificent, a rebirth in itself, in essence, in purity. Arthur was screaming his name but he was aware of it vaguely, with no direction or thought other than it was his name, and it was Arthur who was calling it. Arms were pulling him, and they were comforting and warm and pure.
The bank was a haven, Arthur an angel. “You didn’t tell me you couldn’t swim!” he yelled, staring at him in horror.
“You can.”
“I’m not the one who nearly drowned!” Merlin simply stared at him for a while, soft lips ragged with air, till they reached up and pressed to the corner of Arthur’s mouth softly.
“We’re free,” he whispered, and Arthur shook his head in disbelief.
“Not quite,” he murmured. “Not quite. Come on, then!” He was aware that seeping into Merlin’s countenance was some of the helplessness he’d seen in many a soldier who believed their battle was won. He made it to his feet on a hiss, then put forwards his hand for Merlin to take, which he did in a daze. “We have a long and weary road ahead. Come along. Come along.” Merlin limped along for a bit before he seemed to remember himself and ensured Arthur was fully supported with his own weight, and together they made sure neither tumbled to the floor.
Behind them the castle was almost won. There had been no time to alert his father’s guards that he was free; they must just get to a place of safety and hope they would be found before nightfall. Arthur kept his thoughts on his irregular tread, his ears on Merlin’s ragged breathing, his heart on hope, safety and above all the soft press of lips against his mouth. His hunter’s senses were impeded; he missed the hiss of the arrow till it smashed into Merlin’s shoulder, as his servant sunk noiselessly like oil to the floor.
Arthur swore as the arrows began hissing thick and fast around them, like snowflakes tumbling in a storm. He fell to beside Merlin and pulled him into a roll, tumbling down the hill until they plunged unexpectedly into a ditch, landing at the bottom in a heavy heap.
Merlin was worryingly quiet beside him. He found himself begging, almost irrationally, fingers scrabbling at dank clothing to feel the heartbeat beneath, surging more wet blood across his fingers. “Come on, you idiot. You’re never quiet. Never quiet.” A kiss; breaking the lips, blood flowing into his mouth. Unresponsive. Useless. He was useless. He pulled Merlin to his chest and screamed.
The sun was below the horizon before they were rescued, Arthur as silent as his servant by the end. The guards helped him out gently, as if he were a hallowed king and not a mere servant; the look in Arthur’s eyes dared them to do otherwise. They noticed the prince’s wounds as they pushed him on a horse, Merlin sitting in front, clasped to his chest in a deadlock. The nearest thing the battlefield had to physician hurried forwards, but appeared to be more unduly worried about Merlin than Arthur.
“Why?” the prince had croaked. “He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.”
“With all due respect, my lord, he appears to be uncannily good at breathing to be a corpse.”
Arthur stared. “Oh,” he said. “Oh.” He smiled and kicked the horse into life.
“What on earth has he got himself into this time?” Merlin’s cheeks had lost the clamminess, a healthy flush in its place. Gaius pressed a hand to his forehead in reverence, and sighed. “He will be fine. Has… has he been in water?”
Arthur looked innocent. “Surely not. Perhaps some ditch water, that’s all.”
Gaius continued to look suspicious. “Good. The damp would not have helped the sores on his feet, and besides, he can’t swim.” Arthur appeared to be incredibly out of the loop. “Am I right in thinking you thought he was dead?”
Arthur scowled at him. “As much as I respect the many years of service you have given my father, Gaius, if you go around saying I don’t know when a man’s breathing I will actually remove you from your position myself.”
Gaius gave him a cold look. “I was simply inquiring. If he was, it would not be the first time he has made a miraculous recovery. I was more concerned about your wellbeing, my lord. It is not pleasant to lose someone close.”
“I haven’t lost him,” Arthur said automatically, and cursed himself for it.
“Yes,” Gaius said softly. “Quite.” A pause. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord?” He bowed and left, and Arthur simply looked down at the boy on his bed for a very long time.
“You really are doing this utterly wrong.”
Merlin glared. The water was merely up to his waist, and yet he could barely move in a single direction; all four of his limbs seemed to insist on doing something completely different. “It really would be a lot easier if you let me take my clothes off,” he protested with a sigh for the fifteenth time.
Arthur was swimming in lazy circles, watching him from the centre of the lake. “There is a very little chance that, if you ever were to come into a situation in which you would have to swim, you would have the time to take your clothes off.” He grinned. “Besides, it’s so much more fun this way.”
Merlin glared at him and attempted to sit down in the water again. “I’m just useless,” he sighed miserably, and Arthur’s stomach wrenched - the phrase, which Merlin often seemed to love using, simply reminded him of the moment in that forest, so long ago…
“No,” he said. “Just incompetent.” He sighed. “It’s like running in water. It’s easy, trust me.”
He seemed to be saying that a lot lately.
Merlin pushed his feet off the lake floor, drifting forwards for a few moments. His ecstatic smile was soon swamped as his head sunk under the water as he flailed. Arthur sighed. “Yes. Now, use your arms.” Merlin made a sort of half-wriggling movement and was propelled forwards, much to his delight; his legs almost moved in synchronicity, and all in all he began to rather pathetically make his way across the water, till he was clinging to Arthur for dear life.
“I can’t feel the bottom,” he said in a quiet, terrified voice as his feet floundered beneath the surface.
Arthur sighed. “It’s called being out of your depth.”
“Oh,” he replied, thoughtfully. “So this is what Morgana meant the other night.” He looked up at Arthur for a moment, who was looking back with a whimsical incredulity, then dragged his head down towards him and kissed him.
Arthur’s first response - one of pure shock - meant they plunged helplessly underneath the water. He felt Merlin panicking beside him - pushing to the surface, he dragged Merlin back up in a gasp, and Merlin clung to him in wonder, shaking from more than just the cold.
Arthur was gasping desperately, staring at him. “I thought you’d - ”
“Forgotten? No. Never.” They hung in the water, wreathed in its droplets and perfection, clinging and staring and desperate.
“Did you… did you die?”
“Perhaps. I don’t know what it feels like to be dead.”
“I - ” He stopped, abruptly, and stared at the water beside him.
“Yes, I know,” Merlin said absently, and Arthur smiled.
Merlin limped through the castle, torch in hand, scowl on his face. Stupid Arthur. Stupid kisses. Stupid swimming. Stupid bloody dragon!
He turned a corner, trudged down the steps and came out onto the precipice crossly. “You knew this was coming all along, didn’t you?!” he called into the darkness, hand running through his hair, still damp from the water outside. He shifted painfully from one foot to the other, glaring into the gloom.
He gave up. He turned on his heel, strode up the steps, but didn’t miss the dragon’s booming laugh as he went.