Summary: “I only did it to save you,” Merlin said, feeling tired. “I’ve only ever used it for you, Arthur, I promise.”
“Well, I never asked you to,” Arthur said, and it was only because Merlin knew him so well that he heard the undercurrent of something else below the anger, saw the way his fists clenched with something like fear. “I never asked for any of this!”
_______________________________________
“You’re hurt,” Merlin said to the prince’s back. “Please, just let me heal it.”
“Shut up,” Arthur snarled without turning around. How he could move so fast when he’d been stabbed only minutes before Merlin didn’t know, but he hoped—prayed—that it meant the injury wasn’t fatal. “I don’t need your help. Sorcerer.”
He flung the word at him like an accusation, and Merlin flinched in spite of himself. Killing people with magic was never something he enjoyed, not even bandits, and he’d seen the way the prince’s face had changed when he watched him do it, that calculating look that meant he saw Merlin as a threat. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising that Arthur was so upset, given how often Merlin had lied to him, but that didn’t make his rejection any easier to bear.
“I only did it to save you,” Merlin said, feeling tired. “I’ve only ever used it for you, Arthur, I promise.”
“Well, I never asked you to,” Arthur said, and it was only because Merlin knew him so well that he heard the undercurrent of something else below the anger, saw the way his fists clenched with something like fear. “I never asked for any of this!”
He made a furious gesture that could have meant anything, but which Merlin thought meant you and magic and our relationship, though perhaps not in that particular order. It was funny, really, because Arthur had been the one who started it all, that night he’d curled his fingers in Merlin’s hair and asked if he could kiss him. It was funny in the sense that it wasn’t funny at all.
“Don’t worry, sire,” Merlin said, and if it weren’t for Arthur’s injury he would've turned around and left, let the ungrateful sod make his own way home. “As soon as you let me heal you, you can burn me if you like.”
♦︎
He finally persuaded Arthur to stop when they reached the river, on the grounds that he’d never make the crossing if Merlin didn’t patch him up. Arthur sat, knees drawn up, one hand on the pommel of his sword while Merlin knelt beside him, peeling his tunic away from the wound. He hissed out through his teeth.
“How are you still conscious?” he asked, mostly rhetorically, but the look Arthur gave him said he ought to know the answer anyway. “Right. Prince, blockhead, invincible knightly training, yada yada. You’re an idiot.”
Arthur’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t say anything, just turned his head away as Merlin pressed his hand over the gash. Blood seeped between his fingers, hot and nauseating, and he closed his eyes to steel himself as he sought for the right words.
“Gehǣl,” he murmured, letting the magic flow. “Gehǣl mín brego, béte þære benne.”
It was like stitching, if you ignored the fact that it was power instead of catgut that he used to thread the wound. The magic drew the lacerated flesh together, reminding Arthur’s body of what it felt like to be whole, and Merlin pressed his own love and protection deep into Arthur’s skin, thinking that if this was the last thing he ever got to do for him, then at least he ought to make it something worthwhile.
He didn’t even realise he was crying until something touched his face, and he glanced up to see that it was Arthur’s hand, brushing a stray tear away from his cheek. Arthur’s forehead was wrinkled in a frown, his eyes fixed on the dampness at his fingertips like this was the worst thing that had happened all day, as if being ambushed by brigands and almost killed and wounded was nothing in the face of Merlin’s tears.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur blurted out.
Merlin blinked, and even Arthur looked surprised that he had said it, surprised and annoyed and so very Arthur that Merlin couldn’t help but laugh, putting a hand over his mouth to cover the sound. The laugh turned into a hiccup, which turned into a sob as the full force of the day’s events seemed to strike him all at once, and then Arthur was catching him by the shoulders and gathering him close, holding onto him like he could protect him from everything with his hands and arms alone.
“Shh—please—sorry, I’m sorry—” Arthur’s lips bussed over Merlin’s cheeks, so gentle, kissing away his tears, and Merlin drew in a shuddering breath. “Shh, Merlin—please—”
Merlin turned his head, gasping, to cover Arthur’s mouth, letting his weight push Arthur back into the grass. Arthur’s hands were at his waist, his forehead against Merlin’s own, and somehow he seemed to be taking up the whole world in fact as well as inside Merlin’s head.
“I’m sorry, too,” he said, for the lying if not for anything else. He'd never be sorry for protecting Arthur, no matter what it cost. "I never wanted you to find out like that."
"I know you didn't," Arthur said. And then, lower, "But I'm glad I finally have."
♦︎
“Are you going to have me executed?” Merlin asked later, into the silence. Arthur’s chest rose and fell beneath him, the tip of one finger tracing a slow path up Merlin’s throat.
“Are you going to try to kill me?” he asked, like it was an answer. Merlin’s grip tightened involuntarily around Arthur’s wrist, halting his progress, and he could feel the prince’s smile as he pressed his mouth to Merlin’s hair. “Then it seems we’re at an impasse.”
“A life for a life,” Merlin said, with the ghost of a laugh. “Seems fair.”
“I’ll trust you with mine if you entrust me with yours.” In Arthur’s voice, it sounded more solemn than it had any right to, a compact born out of blood and sex and tears. “Do you swear it?”
“I swear,” Merlin said fervently, and fell asleep with his head tucked into Arthur’s neck, Arthur’s hand on his back, Arthur’s heart a drumbeat of absolution in his ears.
By schweet_heart on ao3