doubt||merthur

chapter 5

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Doubt comes in with tricky fingers

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It’s little more than a skirmish, the sort of fight Arthur would normally consider a mere irritation and swat. Exhaustion drags in his limbs, though, and makes him sluggish. One of the bandits gets a lucky strike in, and Arthur staggers, more disoriented with surprise than hurt. Merlin is tired enough to be reckless. The first man’s ankle breaks on the root of a tree with a sickening snap. The second he hits with a rock anyone could see it’s beyond his strength to lift. They flee – yelping and scrambling – into the white-covered undergrowth, and Merlin looks at Arthur, half-expecting there to be horror in his eyes. Sometimes he craves it, the Merlin? broken with questions and betrayal. It doesn’t come today.

They stand beneath the trees in a circle of trampled snow. Arthur’s breath is heavy, infects the air with weary blue, and when he draws his hand away from the place on his arm he’s clutching, blood like crimson wine drips onto the snow. Merlin winces.

‘We should turn back, get that seen to.’

‘No. We keep looking.’

‘Arthur – ’

‘We keep looking.’

A bit of Merlin wants to shout why? He knows the answer, though. It’s the day of the Yule feast, and Arthur would probably give everything he has to return to Camelot with the words, I found her, Father.

‘Fine.’

‘I wasn’t asking your permission, Merlin.’

‘I meant – ’ Merlin kneels, rummages in his knapsack. He returns to his feet with a small bottle and a bandage. ‘ – sit.’

‘You’re a physician now, are you?’

‘No,’ Merlin says, ‘but in case you haven’t noticed, you’re stubborn, and I’m the only one here.’

Merlin jerks his head at a fallen tree sprawled in the snow like a stricken warrior. Arthur rolls his eyes but complies, anyway. Merlin brushes the snow off the log and sits next to him, pulls Arthur’s arm closer. It’s not the worst he’s seen and the cold will help. He dampens the bandage with the potion he and Gaius have been working on.

‘S’going to sting, b – ’

‘More than the sword did?’

‘Probably not.’ He looks up, meets Arthur’s eye and finds them amused. ‘It’ll stop it getting infected and dull the pain. Be good as new in a day or two.’

He holds the bandage over the wound, presses it down. Arthur flinches – just a little, but Merlin’s close enough to see. He binds it quickly so the potion will work, lets his fingers linger, like he can soothe it with his touch. When he’s not providing Arthur with company he’s been poring over Gaius’ books, learning everything he can to fix bones and mend wounds. He could see it, this, blood and snow – part nightmare, mostly logic. He wanted to be prepared for inevitability.

I’ve saved you from a lot of things, Arthur Pendragon, he thinks. Can I save you from yourself?