Chapter Text
“Behind me,” Arthur says, breathing hard. His hair is sticking to his forehead and his face is red with exertion. His eyes are burning with the steady, battle-hardened fire Merlin knows so well and four bandits surround them in a threatening circle, but none of this stops the sour retort from slipping out of his mouth.
“No!” Merlin protests. “I’m perfectly able to—” An undignified yelp leaves him as Arthur grasps his clothes and drags him back, ripping the seams of his tunic in the process. By the time he’s got both legs under him and he’s rediscovered the skill of speech, Arthur is already a deadly blur of movement attacking two of the four that surround him. With a harsh thrust of his sword one of the bandits cries out and collapses, and Arthur withdraws his blade, gleaming with blood. The other doesn’t have time to yell before an arc of Arthur’s sword has his head tumbling from his shoulders, and the body falls silently to the ground.
Arthur turns to the other two just as one dashes around, and before Merlin can shout, a clammy hand is clapped over his mouth and an arm is wrapped around his throat, choking his breath off. Merlin’s eyes widen and he tries to suck in a breath, and panic flares when he can manage nothing more than a faint wheeze.
“Stop!” the bandit bellows, tightening his hold on Merlin’s windpipe. Merlin scrabbles at the arm that holds him, but nothing happens. His lungs are already screaming with need, clawing at his insides by the time Arthur turns around. Fear is carved clumsily across his features and Arthur holds out a placating hand. His mouth moves, but Merlin is deaf under the colossal roar of blood in his ears. He’s frantic now, driven mad with the need for air and his fingernails dig into the skin of the brigand’s arm. He tries to stomp on the man’s foot, but he only shakes Merlin and growls something incomprehensible.
Arthur’s getting closer now, but there’s a harsh keening replacing the pounding of Merlin’s own heartbeat in his ears and his vision is blurring. The forest and the stone-blue sky are smearing together and there are fuzzy black spots floating in his eyes, his hand slips off the man’s arm and his knees are weakening, tears are burning in his eyes…He tries to speak but his lips part and nothing comes out.
Arthur’s face fades in and out of focus one more time before everything wanes reluctantly into black.
The first thing Merlin is aware of is the pain. A dull, ghastly ache that spikes every time he inhales, and—oddly—a fierce pain in the middle of his chest.
He opens his eyes, and before he can process anything, he’s lurching over and vomiting into the grass. The bile scalds his already excruciating throat and he chokes, gagging twice as strings of drool drip from his lips and tears run down his cheeks. Merlin’s entire body is trembling and he wipes his mouth with his sleeve before collapsing on his back. The coughing begins, horrible, hacking gasps that rip themselves from his body before he can stop them. He’s on his back until a gentle arm inserts itself beneath the small of his back and lifts him up to a sitting position, where he coughs and spits and chokes until they give way to ragged, wheezing breaths. Only then does he become aware that Arthur is right beside him, his eyes dark with concern and his hand rubbing circles on Merlin’s back.
“Arthur,” Merlin tries to say, but nothing comes out except for a raspy imitation of a breath.
“Don’t try to talk,” Arthur says, his agitated gaze still flickering over Merlin’s face. His features are tight with worry. “He had a good grip on you.”
Merlin doesn’t need to look around to know all four bandits are dead. The fact that they’re both alive is enough.
“Next time I tell you to get out of the way, you do it without question and without hesitation, you understand me?” Arthur says, and his voice is sharper than the blade stained with the blood of the bodies lying around them.
Merlin fixes him with a watery gaze, presses his lips into a thin line and shakes his head.
“Are you—you’ve got to be kidding me,” Arthur says loudly. “You’re nearly dead because you wouldn’t listen to me and now—and now you’re ignoring me, again ?”
“I can,” Merlin whispers in a dreadfully hoarse voice. Arthur opens his mouth like he’s about to speak but Merlin makes instant flapping gestures and Arthur scowls, but doesn’t say anything.
Merlin presses a hand to his throat, takes a deep breath, and tries again. “Can—take care—of myself,” he manages, and exhales in relief when the words are out of his mouth.
Arthur shakes his head in disbelief, but there’s an unwilling smile twitching at the edge of his mouth. Merlin almost gives him a weak grin back.
The short journey home is mercifully uneventful. Merlin’s throat stings with every breath he takes and his vocal cords refuse to ask Arthur why his chest feels like there was a stampede over it, so their trip is silent. It would have been a peaceful ride through glades of sunlight and the lamina of red-gold leaves that surround their path had it not been punctuated with Arthur’s constant anxious looks over his shoulder, as though he's worried Merlin might fall off of his horse.
When they arrive back in Camelot, Merlin’s feet have barely touched the ground before Arthur has a firm grip on his upper arm and is dragging him up the stairs to the palace doors. Merlin stumbles indignantly along in his wake, unable to voice his annoyance, and substitutes with swats and slaps, but it has no effect on Arthur.
“We’re going to Gaius,” he says through gritted teeth, and Merlin can’t even heave a sigh without tears of pain springing to his eyes. He wipes them angrily away as Arthur drags him up the stairs with a determined air that Merlin is all too familiar with. Arthur bangs on the door, and when it doesn’t happen fast enough, Arthur opens the door himself and sits Merlin down. The familiar smell of tallow smoke, parchment, and various bitter-smelling remedies envelope them both while Gaius trudges down the stairs, looking down at them with concern.
“He was choked,” Arthur says before Gaius has the opportunity to speak. “We had a run-in with a few brigands, and one of them got their hands on him. He choked Merlin, nearly strangled him. He blacked out before I could get to him, and I…I panicked and struck him in the chest before he woke,” Arthur finishes reluctantly.
Ah, Merlin thinks vaguely. So that’s where the pain is coming from.
Gaius looks at him with a piercing eye, but makes no comment. “Has he spoken since? Merlin, look up for me.”
He does, rubbing a hand against his face. When he takes it away, some muddled part of his brain notes that the grime underneath his fingernails is the flesh of the man who had tried to kill him. The skin and blood of a corpse, living in the crevices of his skin.
“Uh…yeah, yeah he has. Sort of. He got a few words out on the way home,” Arthur says, and Merlin winces as Gaius probes his throat. It’s already horribly tender, and the presence of someone else’s hands on his neck, even Gaius’s, makes him want to lash out with the magic that is always seething in the palms of his hands. “He passed out quickly.”
“It can happen with strangulation victims. The attacker seems to have known what he was doing; in addition to blocking Merlin’s trachea, he also applied pressure on the carotid arteries in his neck. That’s what caused the loss of consciousness so quickly. You must have been in a lot of pain,” Gaius says to Merlin.
Merlin shrugs, his eyes watering. He doesn’t fail to notice Arthur’s eyes lingering, not on Merlin’s face, but on the colourful marks that are already beginning to emerge across his throat.
“Right,” Gaius says briskly. “Merlin, did you get the red nettle and celandine I asked for?”
Merlin nods and points towards the shelves, where buds of red nettle are wrapped in cloth beside clustered blooms of celandine.
“I’ll be back in a few moments, I need a brass pot from the kitchens. Arthur, can you stay with him while I’m gone?”
Arthur nods mutely, and Gaius leaves them alone.
After the door shuts behind him, Arthur sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. His eyes flutter shut, and when he speaks, his voice is low. “You’re going to kill me one of these days. You have got to be more careful, Merlin. I can’t—you can’t put yourself in harm’s way all the time and expect not to get hurt. Look what happened.”
Merlin opens his mouth indignantly, but doesn’t get anything out before Arthur interrupts him.
“Stop trying to talk!” Arthur says loudly. “I just finished saying that you have to be more careful, and you’re already looking to damage your throat even more?”
Merlin’s lips curl up in a sheepish smile, and he shrugs.
“That’s what I thought,” Arthur mutters. He sits down beside Merlin, and his expression softens as he looks at him. It seems thoughtless, a result of a habit he has never earned when Arthur reaches forward and grazes the back of his knuckles along the tip of Merlin’s cheek. Merlin starts, his eyes widening fractionally as he looks at Arthur. The rough brush of his skin against Merlin’s face feels like a jolt to his bones, like some insidious magic that has snaked its way inside of his system and sparks along every nerve he has.
“You are winning far too many bruises in my service,” Arthur whispers. “Promise me you will try harder not to earn more.”
Merlin’s gaze skitters over his exhausted, dirt-smeared face, and Arthur’s hand opens to cradle the side of Merlin’s face. His skin is calloused from years of handling a blade and the scent of grass and metal cling to him. Merlin’s hands dig into the coarse grain of the chair he’s sitting on with the effort not to lean in, not to lick his lips, not to close his eyes and ask Arthur not to stop.
“Promise me,” Arthur says again, quiet and insistent, and his voice works like the medicine Gaius works so hard to compose, drawing the response out of Merlin that he wants. Merlin nods slowly, and a relieved smile breaks across Arthur’s face. “Good. I’m going to hold you to that.” His hand slips from Merlin’s face as he sits back. “Do you want anything?”
Merlin raises his eyebrows, eyes widening in a mockery of incredulity. He doesn’t have to say anything for Arthur to understand.
“Oh…shut up. I might be slightly— slightly , mind you—worried.”
“Clearly,” Merlin gets out in a ragged whisper before Arthur’s hand shoots out and has a hold of his jaw. Merlin freezes, and Arthur leans forward so the tips of their noses are almost touching. The grip he has on Merlin’s jaw lessens so it closer resembles a caress than a threat.
“What have I told you,” Arthur breathes, “about talking?”
The door creaks open behind them, and on impulse, both Merlin and Arthur jerk away from each other.
“Ah,” Gaius says, clutching a dully glinting pot in his hands and glancing from one guilty face to another. “Have I interrupted something?”
“Of course not,” Arthur says too loudly, pushing his chair back with a doleful screech. “I should be going. Gaius, I’ll see you at the council tomorrow. Merlin—” he hesitates as Merlin looks back at him, and his eyes flicker back and forth between the door and Merlin like a rabbit caught in a trap. “Take…take care of yourself.”
Arthur leaves before Merlin can nod, but his words ring in Merlin’s ears long after the door has shut behind him.
- - -
Merlin plucks restlessly at the bed sheets, picking apart the threading he himself mended a little over a month ago. The spicy scent of sage mingles with the sweetness of liquorice root and echinacea in the air, and Merlin rolls his eyes as he hears the familiar clink of wooden bowl and pestle as Gaius grinds roots and flowers together alike.
It has been less than a week since Merlin came back to Camelot with damaged vocal cords and an agonizing throat. A patchwork of bruises, colours of the sky during a storm and violets in full bloom have appeared on Merlin’s throat. Some of them are the shape of fingers. Others are vague, and meander across his skin with all the direction and purpose of clouds.
Arthur had halted in his tracks when he saw them for the first time, only two days after they returned. He had come in complaining about some spat or another between knights and stopped in the middle of his sentence as though his tongue had withered and turned to ash right then. Merlin had looked at him questioningly, until it struck him and his hand went automatically to his throat with an unspoken understanding. Arthur had muttered an incomprehensible excuse and turned to leave. He hasn’t come back to the apothecary since.
“Here,” Gaius says, setting down a cup of something that froths unpleasantly. “Drink.”
Merlin frowns up at him. “I don’t…understand…why I can’t…use magic,” he rasps.
“Because I think Arthur would wonder why you could suddenly speak and why the wounds on your neck disappeared,” Gaius answers cuttingly. “There isn’t an hour that goes by where that boy does not pester me for your condition.”
Merlin stares up at him. “He…”
“Asks after you relentlessly,” Gaius finishes, faint irritation lining his voice. “It would be kind if it were not so constant.”
Somehow, at those words, happiness bursts inside of Merlin like the first tart blueberries of the season exploding across his tongue. He can’t rein in the smile that spreads across his face, and Gaius surveys him critically.
“I think perhaps the deprivation of air has done more damage to your brain than I originally believed,” Gaius decides, and an uncontrollable giggle escapes Merlin’s mouth.
- - -
“Good…good…better! Watch your footwork, that’s where you’re having the most trouble right now. Don’t be so stiff; you’re not going to fall. Loosen up a little.”
“Please, Arthur,” Merlin gasps out, panting hard. The hand gripping the sword is slick with sweat, his hair is sticking to his forehead, and his legs are trembling like leaves in a bitter wind. “A break. Please.”
Arthur looks at him with ill-disguised disdain. “Fine. If you really need it.”
“Thank you,” Merlin groans, and casts himself into the grass. It’s been three weeks since his injury, and this is only the second day Merlin has been allowed to come back to work. The first day was normal—mostly normal, except for the queer looks Arthur gave him as he traipsed around doing his chores, as though he was expecting Merlin to keel over at any moment and was preparing to catch him. The bruises stretched across his neck have faded to sallow sunlight, barely noticeable for anyone who didn’t know to look for them, but of course, Arthur knew. He made that clear in every glance that swooped from Merlin’s eyes to his throat.
“Pathetic,” Arthur mutters now, and tosses his sword onto the ground beside Merlin. “I’m trying to make sure you stay alive in a fight, and all you can do is whine.”
“The sword is…too heavy,” Merlin says with difficulty, propping himself up on his elbows and squinting into the cold sun.
Arthur seems to consider this. “Maybe you’re right. Get up.”
“You just said I could have a break!”
“I lied,” Arthur says without a shred of embarrassment. “Get up, we’re trying something different.”
The thought of moving makes Merlin want to roll over and bury himself in the cool dirt, but he pushes himself up to his feet and wipes the perspiration from his forehead, grumbling under his breath. Arthur gives him a glance of mild amusement and pulls something out of his belt; something small and thin that glints in the hard light. He flips it around and holds it out handle first. Merlin takes it warily.
“A…. dagger?” Merlin asks, turning it around between his fingers. “Why?”
Arthur shrugs and leans down to pick up his sword. “Daggers may be small, but they depend on the speed of the one who’s holding it. I’ve seen you against enough bandits to know that you’re useless with a sword, but you’re quick enough to out-think them. Most of the time,” he corrects himself. “Daggers have less reach and you’d have to get in close, but you’re a small target, and I think if you learned proper footwork, you would do well.”
“Oh,” Merlin says blankly. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” Arthur says. “But you’ll have to work at it.”
Merlin sighs. “You said I was quick. Can’t I just depend on that?”
“No!” Arthur says very sharply. “I’m not dragging you back to Gaius with a hole where your heart used to be because you ducked a little too late. You tried that last time, and look how it worked out.”
“All right, all right. Fine. Relax.”
“I am relaxed,” Arthur snaps. “Show me your footwork again. Work from the ball of your foot, not your heel. Hold the dagger properly.”
“Er—how?”
“Like this,” Arthur says, taking Merlin’s hand and demonstrating. “Don’t strangle it, because you lose fluidity of movement. Looser. There you go. And your pinkie should be almost touching the base of the handle, not so close to the blade. You lose flexibility that way, too. Don’t place your thumb straight up the handle, because if you bend the wrong way, you’ll break it. Your hand-eye coordination is okay, but grip it too hard or let your hand slide up too far, and you lose that wrist movement that’s so important with a small blade like this. Fingers further apart. There. That’s your grip, don’t lose it.”
“Okay,” Merlin says, holding it up to his eye to inspect it. “It feels weird.”
“It’s supposed to, you’re not used to it yet. It’ll feel strange for a little bit, but once you start practicing, it’ll feel like an extension of your arm.”
“Doubt that,” Merlin says.
“Just—try to hit me,” Arthur says, and at Merlin’s worried expression, laughs. “You aren’t actually going to. You’re not good enough for that.”
“Right, yeah, thanks,” Merlin mumbles.
“The first thing someone’s going to do when they see you is try to disable the hand that holds the blade. If you’re not careful it will work. Don’t extend your arm all the way, because then it’s an easier target. Always keep it bent, and—don’t drop it—use your other arm to protect your body. This should be— what did I just say, Merlin— easy for you: always move. You’re twitchy, which isn’t a great thing, but it’s a start for steady movement. Now—”
“Sire!” Leon calls, jogging up to them.
“Oh, thank the gods,” Merlin mutters.
Arthur throws him a filthy look before walking towards Leon. “What is it?”
“Your father sent me,” Leon says, regaining his breath. “He said not to forget about the banquet tonight, and there’s been some news on the assailant in the lower town.”
“What news?”
“He was sighted on the borders.”
“Not caught?”
“He slipped away,” Leon says hesitantly. “But the close call seems to have scared him off. I doubt he’ll be returning.”
“That’s good news,” Merlin says, turning towards Arthur with a relieved air. “Maybe Gaius will stop locking the door at night.”
“Ah,” Arthur says. “Is that why you’re sleeping in the antechamber? Keep forgetting your key?”
“Oh—leave me alone,” Merlin says irritably. “I’m not bothering you.”
“Yes, well,” Leon says, looking askance between them. “It was just a reminder, Sire.”
“Of course, Leon, thank you.”
Leon gives a respectful nod and leaves, trudging back across the field.
“Good job,” Arthur says. “You scared him off.”
“I did no such—”
“Come on, fix your grip. Let’s get back at it.”
Merlin moans pathetically as Arthur takes his hand to rearrange his fingers, and ignores the jolt of heat in his stomach at the touch of their skin slipping together.
The banquet that is thrown that night is indistinguishable from any other. Visiting dignitaries are ushered in by servants with grins and eyes just a little too bright to belong to entirely sober people. The low murmur of dignified conversation transforms into chatter and boisterous peals of laughter, punctuated with the clink of cutlery against plates and the knocking of goblets together as the night wears on.
The kitchens are filled with harried kitchen maids and cooks that have the same grim set to their mouths as generals on the eve of battle, and Merlin has to restrain a grin as he passes a cat slinking away with a triumphant gleam in its eye and a chicken delicacy in its mouth. The head cook is barking orders with stunning voracity, and Merlin almost manages to snag a spoonful of a broth that’s emanating a delicious aroma before she turns a fixed eye on him. He drops the spoon, smiling nervously, and hurries out of the kitchen with a fresh pitcher of metheglin before she drags him down to the cells.
Arthur is still sitting up at the high table when Merlin returns, a healthy blush spread across his cheeks. He’s giving a strained chuckle at some comment the dignitary—a small, pinched man with the pallor and shrunken look of someone who has lost a lot of weight very quickly—has made, and Merlin knows him well enough to see that the cup sitting placidly by Arthur’s hand is the only reason he can work up a laugh at all. It isn’t long before Arthur’s eyes flicker beseechingly towards Merlin, who shrugs, eyes dancing. The opportunities for him to watch Arthur flounder so gracelessly are few and far in-between, and each one is a gift he takes gleeful advantage of.
The music has grown somewhat louder as the food has dwindled, and the melodies have turned the corner from dulcet tones to riotous harmonies that brim with jubilance and wild delight. Merlin’s blood is singing as he watches young nobles and servants alike take to the floor to dance, their differences forgotten for this small, shining moment. His foot taps restlessly as he stares at whirling skirts, quick feet, and hands that clap in tandem with each other, faces flush with delight and panting as the country melody accelerates.
Most of the disapproving glances and solemn conversation have vanished with the older nobles’ leaving. Those that are left are Arthur’s age or younger, and as the atmosphere relaxes, Merlin steals quick swallows of the mead with a cup he has hidden behind his back until the light of the torches begin to take on a blurry shine.
“Honestly, Merlin,” Arthur says, and Merlin realizes with a start that he’s standing less than a foot away. He doesn’t remember seeing Arthur get up. “Next time you steal something from the king’s table, try to be a little more subtle. I could see you drinking all the way from my seat.”
Merlin gives a lopsided shrug. “Want to dance?”
Arthur turns to stare. “I beg your pardon?”
“Dance with me,” Merlin says, barely repressing the longing leaking into his voice. “I want you to dance with me.”
Something contorts in Arthur’s face. “I can’t be seen dancing with my servant. You know that.”
Merlin leans into him for a brief moment. “I know where we won’t be watched,” he whispers, and grabs his hand.
The air is chilly and damp when they make it outside, Merlin giggling madly and tugging Arthur along in his wake. They stop along the palace walls, just outside the hall where the windows are thrown open. The wavering torches give off a dim glow so Merlin can just see Arthur; the angles of his silhouette against the strata of murky clouds in the sky, and he can hear the strains of music coming from inside, the laughter from the dancers.
“Come on,” Merlin says. “Dance with me, Arthur. Just for a few minutes.”
Even in the shadows, Merlin can see the hesitancy on Arthur’s face, how his eyes shift to the ground and back up again and how his jaw works. He looks...vulnerable, Merlin realizes.
“I don’t know,” Arthur says at last, and Merlin sighs and steps forward into Arthur’s space.
“Here. You see this?” Merlin slides his hand into Arthur’s. “You put your hand here.” He places Arthur’s hand on his own waist, trying to ignore the way his heart gallops at Arthur’s soft touch.
“I know how to dance, Merlin,” Arthur says wryly. “That’s not the question that’s being posed here.”
“And then your other hand here,” Merlin says over him. Arthur’s fingers curve around his shoulder. “And then we dance.”
A reluctant, exasperated grin quirks up the side of Arthur’s mouth. “All right. Fine. Just for a minute.” He draws Merlin in closer and he goes easily, every touch a thrill.
Merlin had been little more than a child when his mother had first taken out the rebec, a slim instrument with three strings and a bow. There had been a reverent expression on her face in the dim candlelight of their home when she had first handled it, like there was the light of a star bound to her brow. She worked at the strings with her fingers and then the bow until her skin had cracked and bled, and then she played with hands bound in what bandages she could find. The mellifluous curl and arc of simple chords had slowly taken shape in their home, and it was while she played that Hunith laughed and taught her ten-year-old son how to dance to the music she could eke out of the homespun instrument.
It’s these skills that Merlin draws on now, but the step of this dance is foreign to him, and so his movements are unsure and his feet halting. Arthur moves around him with all the grace of a born warrior, like it’s nothing more than instinct, and his eyes remain locked on Merlin’s.
“You don’t know how to dance, do you?” Arthur whispers. His hand slides from Merlin’s waist to the small of his back, fingertips pressing against Merlin’s spine.
“I--of course I do,” Merlin says unsteadily. “We just don’t know the same ones. I wasn’t taught everything a prince of Camelot was.”
Arthur smiles, and this time it softens his features. To Merlin’s astonishment, his movements change, and Arthur begins to pace through the steps that Merlin learned so long ago.
“What--how do you--”
“My nurse was not a noblewoman, and she was the one who taught me. Do you think my father would have spent time teaching me how to dance instead of fight? She taught me what she could, and this is what she knew. Only later, when it became relevant to impressing possible marriage alliances did my father teach me how to dance properly.” Arthur presses forward and leans his temple against Merlin’s, and Merlin sucks in a sharp breath. “I never realized we were the same height,” he murmurs. “Why did I think I was taller?”
“Probably because I’m always bending down to pick up after you,” Merlin mumbles, and feels a short exhale, a soundless laugh against his skin.
The music floats out to them, reaching with sweet, longing tendrils and coiling in the space between them. They’re both quiet as they walk through old steps of a dance composed before either of them can remember, and the only noise is the catch of their breathing, the brush of their feet against the grass, and the languid slide of their hands against each other.
Merlin doesn’t remember when the music changes. Their steps become second thought, nothing more than leisure and an excuse to be near each other. Merlin has sunk into an incandescent trance, a repercussion of the drink that’s still warming his blood and the heady sensation of his hands moving over Arthur’s body, not to dress him, but because Arthur wants him to. As a result, it’s an abrupt shock when Arthur’s hands grip hard around his waist and lift his feet above the ground, and Merlin yelps, scrabbling for a hold. Arthur swings him around once without so much as a semblance of effort, and laughs when he sets Merlin back on the ground and he grabs at Arthur’s arm.
“What was that for?” Merlin demands breathlessly.
Arthur shrugs, still grinning. “The music called for it.” He takes Merlin’s hand again, and instead of reverting to their old steps, spins Merlin out of his grasp and back in again.
“Arthur--quit it!” Merlin protests once he’s stumbled back into Arthur’s arms. “I just told you I don’t--”
“And I’m teaching you,” Arthur says patiently. “Relax.”
“This isn’t teaching me, this is throwing me to the wolves,” Merlin grumbles.
“The reason we’re out here is because no one can see us,” Arthur says. His eyes glitter strangely in the dark. “We might as well take advantage of it.”
Something about his tone, the implication of his words makes Merlin feel as though a fire has been stoked inside of him, and there’s flame licking at him from within his skin.
Arthur teaches him with whispered words and gentle movements, a far cry from the man who had handed Merlin a dagger only a scant few hours ago and demanded he strike out with it. This Arthur teaches with no small amount of patience and a face that doesn’t crack a mocking grin no matter how many times Merlin trips over himself or steps on Arthur’s foot. Merlin loses track of time, and as it passes, it’s only his recognition of the absence of music that makes him halt, still dizzy with something akin to intoxication.
“What is it?” Arthur asks as Merlin stops.
“There...there’s no music,” Merlin says in a daze.
Arthur seems to consider this. “Do we need it?”
“I--I don’t know.”
“Mm...too bad,” Arthur murmurs. “I guess we’ll have to wait until next time.” He smiles then, a brilliant contradiction to the achromatic night around them, and Merlin’s heart stutters out a rhythm not unlike the one they had just danced to. “We should go inside. It’s getting cold out.”
Merlin nods just a beat too late, and follows Arthur towards the inviting glow of the castle doors. It has emptied in the time they spent outside; the only people they pass are servants who duck their heads as they hurry past to douse what light is left burning. They traipse up the stairs and through echoing corridors to Arthur’s rooms, where Arthur collapses on the bed. Merlin throws himself into a chair by the table, which rocks dangerously as he tips it back.
“Are you sleeping in the antechamber tonight?”
Merlin heaves a sigh. “Probably. I don’t want to wake Gaius, I’ll pay for it tomorrow by having to clean out the leech tank or something.”
Arthur snorts. “You better not snore.”
“Have you heard me these past few nights?” Merlin asks indignantly.
“No, but I might if you were closer,” Arthur says, and his eyes linger on Merlin’s face.
“Then...I guess it’s lucky I’m not,” Merlin says haltingly, watching Arthur’s reaction. Whatever vulnerability was in Arthur’s expression vanished the second Merlin opened his mouth, and now it looks like he’s barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes.
“Go to sleep, Merlin.”
“Don’t you want--”
“I can undress myself tonight.”
“Right,” Merlin says, and watches Arthur turn away before walking to the door and closing it behind him.
Sleep is not easy to come by. Merlin is comfortable and warm and the pallet is marginally more forgiving than the coarse mattress he usually sleeps on, but something keeps him awake and restless, and he squeezes his eyes shut so tightly that light blooms behind them instead of dark. But every sound, every whisper in the dark and creak of the floor makes him sit up, the half-formed thought lurking in the back of his mind, that something is coming, and he must be ready for it.
Nothing does. It’s long hours before his body sinks reluctantly into a murky doze, and even then, his dreams don’t come in nonsensical, half-baked stories of things that only make sense when he’s asleep, and instead mimic reality. When Merlin wakes, he’s gasping for breath and scrabbling at his throat, trying to rip away fingers that were never there. It’s a moment before his vision focuses and he sees Arthur standing by the door, eyebrows raised.
“You all right?”
“Fine,” Merlin says hastily, propping himself up on his elbows. He can still feel ghostly fingers lingering at his Adam’s apple. “Am I--”
“Late? Yes.” Arthur turns back to his rooms, leaving the door open, and Merlin scrambles up, tugging a shirt on, tying his trousers at his waist and pulling on his boots all in the space of a few seconds. He stumbles out the door and finds Arthur sitting on the edge of his bed, playing with his comb and looking far more amiable about Merlin’s inevitably bad timekeeping than he usually does.
“Er--should I…”
“No, Merlin, come here,” Arthur says. A dim bell goes off in the back of Merlin’s mind. This is exactly what Arthur is like right before he throws a goblet at his forehead.
“Look, if I did something wrong, you can just toss the pitcher at me and have it over with. Really.”
“I’m not going to throw anything at you,” Arthur says patiently. “Sit down.”
Merlin approaches the bed with trepidation, eyeing Arthur like he’s about to lunge at Merlin. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” Arthur leans over and draws a flat, unadorned wooden box out from under the bed. He turns it over in his hands. “I went out early this morning. You were still sleeping. And I...got this.” He gives the box to Merlin, who stares at it and then at Arthur.
“What did you do?” he asks warily.
“Open it.”
Merlin gives him another suspicious look. The lid doesn’t creak as he opens the box, and inside, on a bed of dull grey silk, is a dagger. The blade is rich bronze interlaid with steel, gleaming hungrily in the morning light. The handle is polished bone, deceptively smooth, almost soft, and it fits in Merlin’s grip as he lifts it with a trembling hand. “What--” his voice breaks before he can finish.
“There’s a bronze worker that comes through Camelot every so often. I knew he was coming through today, and this was in his cart. And since you don’t have a single weapon to call your own…”
“How much did this cost,” Merlin asks weakly. He knows just by looking at it that its value is more than a year’s worth of his wages.
“He owed me a favour.”
“Arthur, this is...this is too much. I can’t take it.”
“You’re taking it,” Arthur says flatly. “If you’d had this when we were attacked, you wouldn’t have been--been--”
“Injured,” Merlin finishes for him. “And I understand that, but this is a weapon fit for...well, a prince. It’s not meant for someone of my station.”
“Someone of your station isn’t meant to save the prince’s life, but you’ve done that too,” Arthur says. “I let you get hurt. I’m trying to make up for it.”
“You didn’t let me get hurt. I was too slow and the...the bandit got ahold of me,” Merlin says, gesturing aimlessly. “It’s fine. I’m fine now.”
“No you aren’t,” Arthur says softly, and again, it’s a vivid shock when he leans forward and skims his knuckle across Merlin’s cheek. Merlin inhales sharply and Arthur’s hand pauses before sliding along the curve of his jaw, down to his chin, where he tips Merlin’s face up just slightly. “I told you I woke up early this morning. You weren’t just sleeping. I know what you were dreaming about.”
“I--it’s nothing, Arthur. It’ll pass.” He’s fighting to keep his voice steady now.
“I’m sure it will,” Arthur murmurs. “Doesn’t mean I like that it’s happening.”
“What’s gotten into you?” Merlin breathes. Arthur’s too close now. The golden threads of his eyelashes are winking in the sun, so pale that Merlin has never been close enough to notice them before. “You’re acting odd.”
“I thought I was watching you die,” Arthur whispers. “All I could do was stand there and watch as you struggled to breathe. Your face turned red and then white, your eyes rolled up in your head and then you were just--” his voice fractures into small, meaningless noises, and without warning, his head drops forward onto Merlin’s shoulder. “I was watching you die,” he says again, and Merlin fights valiantly to keep himself from leaning forward into what is almost an embrace. Arthur’s hands are braced on either side of Merlin’s hips now, pressing into the bed, so close to his skin. “I thought for sure that some foolish, desperate criminal, a man who’s name I’ll never even know, had killed you for no other reason than you were there and an obstacle to what he wanted. You were dead, I swear you were dead, I thought that you’d been taken from me because I’d gone hunting on a whim.”
“Taken from you?” Merlin asks softly. He can feel Arthur’s warm breath on his shoulder. His palms are pressed against the mattress, leaning back, but Arthur makes no move to pull away.
“Yes,” he whispers. Merlin can feel Arthur’s lips move against the edge of his collarbone. “From me.”
Merlin can’t help the violent shudder that ripples up his frame at those words, and Arthur inhales. “Something wrong?”
“No,” Merlin answers too quickly. “I just don’t...I don’t know.”
Arthur at last leans back, and there’s a queer, naked look in his eyes, something Merlin’s never seen before. Some part of him wants to leave, return to the comfortable, monotonous rhythm of his daily chores, but the rest of him is frozen to the bed, watching the crown prince’s eyes flicker to his lips and back up again.
“And then those bruises.” Pain flashes across Arthur’s features. “All the way up your neck and down your chest, you couldn’t speak for days…”
“You never came to see me.”
“Gaius told me how you were every day. And...I did come. Twice. You were sleeping both times, and Gaius chivvied me out before you woke up.”
“Why did he--”
“I don’t know,” Arthur whispers. “It doesn’t matter. It scared me to death seeing you like that, and I still can’t get it out of my head. Whenever you’re not around I--I actually worry. I worry . Because what if something happens again? What if something happens and I’m not there, what if it’s just you?”
“Hence the dagger,” Merlin breathes. “You’re scared for me.”
Arthur’s face tightens. “I thought I made that clear. You--I can’t--I don’t want you to get hurt again.”
“First you’re teaching me how to fight, then how to dance, now you’re giving me something worth more than my life--”
“It’s not,” Arthur says sharply. “It’s meant to help you keep your life, that’s all. It’s not a big deal.”
Merlin can’t restrain the small burst of disbelieving laughter that comes out of his mouth. “Not a big deal? This is strange even for you. If you’d started the day by dragging me out of bed, throwing a perfectly good apple at my head and then complaining about the way I open the curtains, then I’d--” Merlin doesn’t get to finish. Arthur is already leaning forward and kissing him hard on the mouth, so fast that before Merlin can begin to reciprocate, almost before he registers the warmth of Arthur’s lips Arthur is pulling back, flushed to the tips of his ears.
“Sorry,” Arthur says hoarsely. “I couldn’t--I had to--I’m sorry.”
Merlin is too astonished to do anything but stare, his mouth agape as Arthur touches his face again, a scrape of rough fingertips against his skin before Arthur gets up and leaves the room, Merlin unable to mount any sort of protest. Then he’s left alone, sitting on a bed that isn’t his and still holding a gleaming dagger in his limp hand.