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Arthur waits until it’s dark before sliding the knife out of his boot and cutting through his and Merlin’s bonds. Merlin’s pale, unconscious, breathing shallowly, and he picks him up despite the pain in his head, staggering out of the camp.
These have got to be the most incompetent bandits he’s ever known.
He puts Merlin down next to a small creek, sitting down beside him. The cold iron cuffs glint in the moonlight. Huh. Poor Merlin. There’s no way to get them off now though.
Merlin reminds Arthur of a vulnerable child like this, looking so young and innocent in his sleep, and he reaches out a hand to pat his hair.
He recoils quickly.
Merlin’s hair is stiff. It shouldn’t be stiff, it should be fluffy and ruffleable. Why’s it stiff? And crusty. It doesn’t feel right.
He rubs it tentatively, feeling flakes of something dark coming off. Oh. Of course. The tree branch. Well, it makes sense that it would cause some sort of damage, it did knock him out.
What to do about his hair though? Arthur scoops up some water in his cupped hands and pours it over Merlin’s head. He does it again and again, combing it through gently. Something very strange is going on with the world — whenever he moves suddenly, it lurches. Maybe Merlin will know why. He’s clever like that.
Eventually, Merlin’s hair looks more the right colour, and Arthur ruffles it, letting out a satisfied hum. There. Much better. That’s how it should be.
Like a fluffy chick. He giggles. That definitely suits him. Fluffy chick.
Oh. The world’s getting darker. That’s odd. Why would everything go dark? It’s already night. And everything’s tilting sideways now.
Maybe closing his eyes will make everything feel better. He tries it. Yes, that’s better. Just a quick snooze. Just until the world goes back to normal…