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Merlin was dying. Arthur was sure he was dying this time. It wasn’t a one off, a magic attack which he could miraculously recover from, or a poison which could be extracted.
No, the servant was bleeding out, attacked by bandits who appeared so quickly they had no chance to respond.
And now they were gone, and Merlin had been stabbed through the stomach. And he wasn’t going to make it. He’d already lost too much, the king knew he’d not see Camelot again.
Arthur knelt down beside his friend. His expression must’ve given his emotions away, because Merlin laughed hollowly,
“That bad, huh?”
“No. We’ll, er- get you on your horse, and then-“ he sighed, biting back tears, “Then we’ll get you fixed up, alright?”
His servant looked sympathetic, which wasn’t fair, he was the one who was dying, he shouldn’t feel sorry for me.
“You’re an amazing king, Arthur,” he said, shivering from the cold, “and I want you to go with what you feel, not what people tell you. Trust yourself, even if no-one else does.”
“No. You’re not dying. Stop it.” The tears spilled over,
“I need you to promise to take care. Of yourself, and Gaius, and Gwen. The knights, too. They’ll miss me. And they may not say it, so don’t be harsh.”
The king nodded mutely.
“and,” he winced and shivered, “please-don’t..don’t burn me. Just-“ his eyes started to droop, “don’t- I can- can’t..” and the servant went limp in Arthur’s arms.
“Merlin? Come on, wake up. Stay with me. I-stay with me! Merlin!”
He was gone.
-
The words spoken between them lingered on the king’s mind, and as soon as he got back, he endeavoured to enact them.
He ordered a grave to be dug, in the royal cemetery. There were questions, but he cared little for what people thought. Merlin deserved nothing less than royal treatment, after all, he did do most of Arthur’s duties.
Once he’d been buried, the prince threw himself into action, helping everyone else. He did chores for Gaius, despite not having the time, he let the knights miss practise, and held Gwen when she cried. He invited everyone to meals, and allowed everyone to process however they needed to.
Everyone, that is, except him.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to mourn Merlin. He wanted to express it all, however he could. But he was afraid, if he did so, he may never stop.
So he carried on, never stopping to think about any of it, about his new servant, or the emptiness in his heart, or the way everyone looked at him, as if he were something fragile or breakable and one wrong word would bring him shattering down. And he didn’t want to think about how true it was. He couldn’t think about it. It would be too much.
-
A week passed.
2 weeks.
People moved on, and he couldn’t. He needed guidance, and had no one to turn to.
How do you find your way after something like this?
How do you replace something that no longer exists?
Arthur stopped thinking about it as much as possible. He tried not to think about anything, if he could help it. It all was just too..familiar.
-
3 weeks after being buried, Merlin woke up. His stomach was tender, but healed, and felt a distinct feeling of claustraphobia wash over him.
Wherever he was, it was dark and cold. He shivered slightly. The air was getting thinner, too, so wherever he was, he was definitely sealed in somehow.
He racked his brains as to how he’d ended up here, and remembered a fight. There were bandits, and they’d-
Oh.
Of course it was dark.
The servant began to panic. He knew if he stayed in here, he’d die again, and he couldn’t have that. He began pounding on the roof of the casket, hearing the cracks of the wood breaking. He scratched and clawed at the wood until it broke off in his hands, and soil began to spill all over his body.
Merlin was coughing as the soil filled his lungs, and dug upwards, keeping going until he reached the top. The warlock dragged himself out of the hole coughing and spluttering as he brought up blood and dirt from his lungs.
Once he could breathe properly, Merlin started to get his bearings. He was in the cemetery, a little way away from Uther and Igraine, and there was no-one around.
Merlin’s head was pounding and fists throbbing from clawing his way out of the grave, and he was thoroughly confused as to why he was still on the Earth, if not slightly grateful. He was also certain he could sleep for a week, if allowed.
After a while, the warlock dragged himself to his feet, swaying as he did so, and trudged his way back to the castle, making his way past the stables, along a path he knew off by heart.
It was night, so no-one was around to see a dead servant wandering about the castle grounds, which was probably good, but only made Merlin feel more alone.
Finally, Merlin reached the door he’d come to thousands of times before. He knocked steadily, ignoring the blood smear he left on the door by doing so.
It swung open, and Gaius was stood at the door. He paled significantly at the sight of his ward, covered head to toe in dirt, and shivering on his doorstep.
“Merlin? Is that you?”
He nodded, immediately being enveloped in a hug,
“oh, my dear boy. I thought you- Never do that again.”
Merlin smiled at that, “I wasn’t planning on it this time.”
Gaius broke away, “We should call for Arthur,” he told him, before bringing him to sit by the fire, and grabbing some water and a brush.
The physician went out quickly, finding some guards to inform the king, before scrubbing his ward free of dirt, taking extra care on his hands, to ensure they stayed free from infection. He bandaged them up, and looked at the wound on his stomach, bandaging that too, before giving the warlock some fresh clothes to change into.
“There. You’re clean now.”
Merlin was still shivering, and his headache was ever present. He could still taste the dirt in his mouth, and felt as though he should still be in the ground.
He could feel the question hanging over him:
Why am I not dead?
He pondered whether it had anything to do with his magic, for a moment. It must have done, since otherwise he would be dead by now, or maybe someone cursed him.
Halfway through pondering what being a wraith felt like, the door burst open, and Arthur and Gwen stood in the doorway.
Gwen started crying when she saw him, and Arthur held her close to him. She went over, and held Merlin’s hand.
“Is he alright?” Arthur asked, hoping it was him.
“He’ll be fine, sire.
“But-how is this possible?” Gwen asked.
“I do not know, but he is alive, with seemingly no complications. He should be fine to go to work in a few days, if you’ll have him.”
“Of course I’ll have him, Gaius. It’s Merlin,” the king responded, “can I have a moment alone, though?”
The physician gave a look to Merlin, and then back to Arthur,
“I think I can spare a few moments. But don’t excite him.” He told the king.
“Of course not.”
Gaius gave Arthur a small satisfied nod, before guiding Gwen out of the room.
The king turned to face his servant,
“So..you’re ok?”
Merlin nodded.
“And you’re Merlin?”
Another nod.
“Prove it.”
“You married Gwaine, last year.”
The king rushed forwards, wrapping his friend in a huge hug.
A moment later, Merlin felt something wet where Arthur’s face was.
“Arthur, are you-“
“Shut up,” the king told him, but his voice trembled as he spoke. Merlin hugged him tighter as he sniffed quietly, “I couldn’t think-I just..you’re my best friend, Merlin.”
The warlock pulled away, “you’re a clotpole if you can’t realise you’re my best friend too.” He grinned at Arthur, who wiped away his tears, “and if not, you’re still a clotpole, just not a totally useless one.”
The king laughed, “I’m glad you’re back.”
Merlin raised an eyebrow, “don’t you care about why? What happened?”
Arthur shrugged, “No.”
As soon as he said it, he knew it was true. He didn’t care if the forces of the darkest magic pulled his friend from the ground, as long as his heart beat and his eyes glinted.
As long as he was where he belonged.
Right next to his king.