Work Text:
It never fails to surprise them, though they should both know better by now.
The first time, it’s Arthur: Arthur in his red cape, armor glinting as he rides and shouts and swings an expert sword. It’s Arthur whose chest is broad as Merlin wraps the mail around it, though it always seems broader still when Merlin strips it off again and kisses the unbroken skin of Arthur’s shoulder in silent thanks.
It’s Arthur who lays in state at the end, too; Arthur who ends still and cold as stone, crown glinting on his brow until the shroud covers him and his queen picks up the mantle he has left. Arthur’s name lives long past him. The stories of his battles remain as colorful as the cloak that streamed behind him. Merlin walks; walks until his thoughts grow dim, and he forgets.
*
Arthur wears his leathers with all the pride accorded to a warrior. He fights the Romans until there is nothing left to gain, not when the queen he serves refuses to condemn her people for the sake of death’s empty glory. Merlin paints his face for him, traces protection into his chest and down the bare expanse of his arms, until he has put everything he has and is and breathes into a living shield. The sight of Arthur walking boldly into the Roman camp, dressed for war and yet unarmed, his hands loose and his back straight as he follows his queen to parlay -- it steals Merlin’s breath from his body, sends his heart tripping in his chest.
It is not enough. It could never be, not when the treachery comes from within the ranks of the men Arthur has trained since they were boys, from the only men he believed he could trust. Merlin exacts his revenge, but as long and slow and agonizingly painful as he can make the twist of the knife, it will not be enough.
It never is.
*
Arthur reads the reports from the town dutifully every morning, ensconced in his solarium while the maid scatters fresh herbs over the rushes. He does not always pay attention to the details, though he knows he should, with the royal progress on its way to his fief. It is difficult to concentrate, when he wishes to meditate instead on the blushing cheeks of one of their majesties’ soldiers under the helmet that’s too big for his head and too small for his ears.
The thought of the ears proves too distracting: how can he be expected to attend to the grain stores when Merlin could be waiting, scuffing the toe of his boot into the dirt and leaning on his pike with a saucy grin? Arthur huffs and abandons the reports for his steward to shake his head over, barely remembering to grab his cloak against the early morning chill.
He does not see the note regarding the fire in the lower town, set by an errant candle; never reads the account of the wounded and homeless it left as it spread from stable to house, of the lone soldier who had run in when it was clear the miller’s house was doomed to save the last of the poor fools trapped inside.
He never reads the words meant to warn him that the building had collapsed in a terrible inferno: all souls lost.
*
Arthur leads a charge that poets will later turn immortal in horror and in awe. He moves smoothly with the horse, his face set and every movement sure. His boots are polished and his uniform gleams; he betrays none of the exhaustion he feels down to his bones. He holds his shoulders easy and square beneath his epaulettes, and against his heart he carries the portrait of those who wait at home for the return he will not make. He had pressed a hand against it, earlier, and bowed his head, but there is nothing for it now. He has left a letter, which, if it does not go astray, will have to be enough. Even now, even with the enemy in front of him and his weapons gleaming in his hands, he knows it will not be, but it is all he has ever had.
*
The world has narrowed to mud and ice and dismal rain, and Arthur tucks his chin deeper into the meager warmth of his coat. They have been in the trenches months now, accompanied all the while by the constant grinding of artillery; he has all but given up on salvaging his boots, though at least his mustache remains well-trimmed.
He nods to the men as he walks, ducking around and through the walls and traps that define the limits of their world. A lesser man would be pacing, but Arthur is an officer. It does not matter that he has walked this circuit five times today already: he is merely being attentive to his duties. The medics greet him with the barest courtesy, which he waves off, uncaring. They have had a busy day, the stretchers and nurses running full-tilt while all the while the numbers against them mount higher and higher. Arthur keeps to the edges of the tent and ducks out the other side as soon as he is able, with his hands clasped behind him and his eyes searching all the while for one specific face. He stops a nurse with one quiet question, the same he has been asking her for two days. Her face is tired, and her dark hair sticks in ringlets to the back of her neck, but her eyes are kind; they soften into pity as she shakes her head.
The disappearance of the ambulance causes more problems for Arthur than the loss of one driver, but it is that one tiny, insignificant loss that pulls heavy at him, stacked up against every other unjust loss he has faced.
He makes his slow way back to his own tent, exhausted, his chin now sunk even further against his chest. It has begun to rain again. He will write again to his superiors, begging for more boots, for better coats for his men, for another driver. There is nothing else to be done.
*
*
*
Gwen takes pity on Merlin, the poor man, jumping at every sound as he waits for Arthur. She doesn’t exactly blame him, but his nerves are rubbing on hers, which are too-fresh still from convoys and the quick staccato rap of gunfire. She settles next to him; distracts him with a smile and doesn’t mention the way his hands twist around each other. It’s been three months since her unit shipped out, and she knows well the itch that grows underneath your skin with every week that passes, until it’s hard to think, let alone sit in a single place.
“He’ll be along,” she says, the little comfort she can offer when it’s clear that Merlin can’t focus on anything but the barest social niceties despite a valiant effort. “The general won’t keep him.” Merlin mutters something unflattering about the general, and Gwen has to bite her lips hard to keep her grin from becoming an outright laugh.
She doesn’t have to turn around to know the second Arthur enters the room. Suddenly, Merlin is alert, entirely riveted on something -- someone -- directly behind her: as if there’s no one else in the universe; as if there never has been.
Gwen’s not the top-ranked officer in her unit for nothing, and it doesn’t take her long to beat a calculated retreat from between the two of them. Merlin stands as she leaves, but he stays still and quiet, holding himself gingerly, as if he’s afraid if he moves he’ll shake apart. Arthur reaches for him first, circling his fingers loosely around Merlin’s wrist, and something cracks between them at the touch. Gwen’s meant to be doing paperwork, but she can’t quite bring herself to leave -- can’t quite bring herself to look, either, as Merlin and Arthur fold each other up: an unbearably intimate embrace.
Merlin has his nose buried deep along the collar of Arthur’s uniform, and Arthur’s back is shaking -- only slightly, barely enough for someone whose eye has been trained for it to tell -- and Gwen does turn away at that. She’s at the door when she hears Arthur speak.
“What the fuck!”
Merlin’s reply is indistinct as Gwen whirls on instinct, reaching for a gun that isn’t there. She can’t see their faces, but Arthur’s shaking is worse, shudders working from his shoulders down his spine. “You beat me to it, you little shit,” Arthur says, and something in his voice makes her pause. “I’ve got -- you asshole, I was going to --”
He has to stop. He’s laughing now, too hard to speak, and soon enough, Merlin is as well, his face pale but happy and his body half-collapsed against Arthur’s. Gwen stares, confused, raising her eyebrows across the room at Leon and Gwaine as they peer around the other door in open consternation. Arthur, though; Arthur’s bending Merlin backward in a passionate kiss, drawing him close until Merlin barely has a toe on the floor.
“What the hell--” Elena says, popping around the doorframe next to Gwen, and Arthur -- Arthur must hear her, because he doesn’t stop kissing Merlin but he does lift up his left hand with a calculated flourish.
“Well, fuck me,” Gwaine says, but Leon’s clapping, and Gwen joins in as well, her grin stretching slow and warm across her cheeks.
“We’d better fucking be invited,” she calls, and this time she doesn’t stop her laughter as Arthur flips his hand over into an elegant one-fingered salute, the brand new ring glinting like a promise in the sunlight.