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Merlin spends the journey to the Darkling Woods twining his horse’s reins, anxiously muttering the words of the spell he is going to need and prodding at his magic as if agitating it will make his job easier. As the horse steps carefully over fallen sticks and tangling greenery, Merlin doesn’t spare a second to enjoy the bustling forest floor like he normally would. He is too intent on the task ahead to appreciate anything, thoughts locked into a nervous twist.
It isn’t until he reaches his destination that Merlin snaps back into the present. As soon as he sees Aithusa, he drops off of his horse.
The young dragon has grown significantly since Merlin hatched him; the curve of his body stands apart from the trees, a flash of white in the distance, rolling up and down like a misshapen hill. It has been a long time since Merlin could tuck him into a basket to sneak him into the castle, or else he wouldn’t have had to make this trip. He would have brought Aithusa up to his room and treated him there.
Merlin glances around, checking one last time that he is truly alone, and then hurries forward. “Aithusa,” he calls, but the dragon doesn’t answer. Merlin presses his lips together, trying to smother his concern behind a tight smile.
He had made this same trip the day before, and Aithusa had certainly been unwell, but not as bad as this. Now he is coiled tight like a snake, nostrils flaring harshly with each haggard breath, with his wings draped over loosely like worn curtains. It makes Merlin’s stomach clench, and he starts swinging his bag off his shoulder before he even reaches Aithusa’s temporary nest.
“There you are,” he hums, dropping to his knees. Aithusa peeks his eyes open to watch Merlin, and his chest rumbles in greeting. His eyes are glazed and yellowed, and his gaze is unfocused before he lets his eyes roll shut. “Poor thing,” Merlin mumbles, brushing his fingers carefully down the dragon’s side, feeling the ridges of his scales.
Aithusa rumbles again, the sound is throatier now. Miserable and phlegmy.
Merlin. The plea gurgles through Merlin’s skull and he tries not to cringe at the desperation of it.
“I know, I know,” Merlin soothes, pressing a ginger kiss just below Aithusa’s eye. “I’ll make it better. You’ll feel so much better soon, don’t worry.” He pokes around in his bag for a few moments before pulling out a bundle of dry herbs. “There we go. See what I have?”
He doesn’t wait for Aithusa to acknowledge his rambling. Dropping to sit cross-legged, Merlin extends his arm out, eyes intent on the herbs, and lights the ends with a quick word. The small bundle immediately starts to smoke, and Merlin gets to work wafting it around Aithusa, fanning his hand lightly over it and repeating the healing spell he had been reviewing all night, wishing, a bit ashamedly, that he had someone to practice on.
Aithusa shifts, but doesn’t open his eyes again. Merlin bites his lip and continues on with the spell. He tries to keep his focus on the body; the round, near-opalescent scales, the long neck and strong legs. His magic tugs, not eager to do its work. With a frustrated jerk of his arm, Merlin says the words again and again, putting more emphasis into them as if that might compel his magic to cooperate.
He’d worried about this, of course. Merlin has never been particularly skilled at healing. But he needs this to work, he needs to be able to make Aithusa better.
Swallowing hard, Merlin reaches deep within himself, finding the place where his magic swirls and flickers. He imagines dragging his fingers through molten gold, gathering it into his hand and lifting it up, up, up from his belly to his throat, where he speaks it into action.
And then, finally, he feels the change. Merlin places his free hand back on Aithusa’s side, directing the flow as well as he can. Where his flesh connects with scales, he feels mending. Hot and kind and merciful mending, cleansing the sickness from Aithusa’s body. Merlin wants to shout and dance around, or just sigh in relief, but is too afraid to break concentration. He doesn’t just want to make Aithusa better, he wants him healthy.
Now that Merlin has successfully started the spell, he worries that he won’t be able to maintain it long enough to achieve what he hopes to, and he will have to leave Aithusa half-healed. And then what happens? Merlin goes home, leaving Aithusa to fend for himself, without knowing if the dragon worsens again? What if Aithusa needs him?
Heart giving a heavy thump at the thought, Merlin presses harder, urging more magic forward. It swells, almost giddy now, and rushes out of him like an overturned carafe. He twitches with the sudden lack of effort, body disquieted at the sudden release, but holds himself firm.
Aithusa blinks his eyes open again. He looks startled, and Merlin can’t help but laugh, amazed when the slip doesn’t halt his magic. He continues to give, seeing how clear Aithusa’s eyes are, how clear and blue and aware. It fills him with delight; healing has never been this easy before. He’s never seen such good results.
Aithusa quirks his head and lifts himself to his feet, snapping his tail.
Merlin? Aithusa’s voice is stronger in his head now, though there is an uncertainty to it. That’s enough, now.
“Hold on,” Merlin says, ignoring how his own voice sounds distant and echoey. The dragon croaks and burbles nonsense at Merlin, and he nods reassuringly. “I’m almost done.”
And then, abruptly, the spell is no longer effortless. Merlin’s hand feels leaden on Aithusa’s back, and his magic, liquid and generous just moments ago, feels sluggish. His throat tightens sickeningly at the stutter, but he continues to push it forward. He isn’t done, after all, and it would be ridiculous to stop before he’s finished.
Merlin’s vision fuzzes at the edges. A little more, he assures himself. Just a little more.
Aithusa waits impatiently, mouth stretching over his teeth in an unhappy expression. It’s similar to the face he makes when Merlin accidentally steps on his tail or says something the dragon finds particularly foolish.
His magic has slowed to a trickle before Merlin feels that he has done enough. His hand drops heavily to his side and he sighs contentedly.
“Look,” he slurs, “I did it. You’re okay.”
Aithusa trills, and Merlin tries to smile in answer but isn’t sure how well his face responds to the command. He blinks at the dragon, who blinks back.
Then, in a hazy swirl, Merlin tilts sideways.
~*~
Arthur notices the open window as soon as he enters his room his room. Instead of hmm, that might be a bad sign, he thinks Merlin left the window open. Which isn’t a completely ridiculous assumption to make, despite the fact that Arthur hasn’t seen Merlin this morning, and the state of his room suggests that the other man didn’t bother to clean if he was there, and if Arthur isn’t here and Merlin isn’t cleaning, Arthur isn’t really sure what he would be doing.
Probably some strange sorcerer business. They’ve talked about Merlin not enchanting or sorcering Arthur or any of his things without explicit permission unless they are in a life-or-death situation, but Merlin has had a hard time keeping to that. He’s gotten better about telling Arthur afterwards, though. Like a few weeks ago, when he’d apparently starched Arthur’s tunic with magic and had snapped his fingers and quickly told Arthur just as he was tugging it over his head.
Arthur had told him that really wasn’t the kind of thing he meant. So, maybe Merlin is confused now.
He is ruminating on this point as he turns to find a horse-sized white dragon anxiously chewing on the leg of his desk chair.
Arthur carefully doesn’t swallow his own tongue. He chokes, lifting his hands feebly, and stares. Other than that, he’s really not sure what to do.
The dragon kindly cracks its teeth apart and releases the chair. It works its jaw, then slips past Arthur’s legs and surges towards the door, making a last-second turn and sweeping its tail out high enough to send a fruit bowl off the table and onto the floor. Once it is completely blocking Arthur’s escape route, it sits with a resolute huff. It doesn’t even bother to look apologetic.
He knows about the dragon, of course. The pearly white one. Aithusa, Merlin calls it in that weird, affectionate way of his. As if the dragon is equivalent to a beloved pet or an oversized baby. Arthur has spent enough time listening to Merlin coo over it that he understands its significance in his life. He’d hoped that Merlin had heard him grumble about it enough that he would know better than to let it poke its head through the window of his chambers and make itself at home.
Arthur and the dragon stare at each other for a drawn-out, silent moment. Then it stretches its maw open, and Arthur feels himself tense in anticipation. The noise that cracks out of it is more bark than roar, but Arthur still jolts and takes a step back.
Then, feeling foolish, he clears his throat and says, “What?”
Dragons talk. Arthur knows this. He waits for it to actually start the conversation it seems to have come here for, but it just continues to make those little squawking noises that sound…well.
Distressed.
So, Arthur fills his lungs with air, straightens his posture and says, “Good morning,” because even if Merlin has assured him that the dragons are fine and never going to attack Camelot again, Arthur figures it can’t hurt to be polite.
Aithusa whistles and jerks its head towards the window.
“Did you come in through the window?” Arthur asks doubtfully. Aithusa doesn’t respond, though Arthur gives it plenty of time, so he shakes his head and grumbles, “No, you’re too big. Right? You can’t…squeeze through such a small space, can you?”
Aithusa grits its teeth and jumps, slamming down hard enough to make the whole room rattle. Arthur looks sharply at the door, hissing. He waits, but nothing happens. No one comes running down the hall, no guards knock on the door to make sure Arthur hasn’t dropped the bureau on himself.
He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and snaps, “What am I supposed to do if someone sees you?”
The dragon glares at him. It makes Arthur’s stomach jump, but he’s good at ignoring that feeling.
“Can you talk?” he asks. Merlin hadn’t said anything about the younger dragon not talking. Actually, he’s pretty sure he remembers Merlin repeating a joke this specific dragon told him.
Maybe it’s like with the Druids, and Aithusa talks to Merlin in his mind. Or communication could be an innate ability between dragonlords and dragons. That would probably come in handy.
Or the dragon hates Arthur. That wouldn’t be all that surprising.
More to himself than Aithusa, Arthur rolls his eyes towards the ceiling and asks, “Why are you here? Did Merlin let you in here?”
Without warning, Aithusa launches forward. Arthur twists himself to the side to dodge, but it follows him, mouth hanging open. With a whine, it closes its teeth and nips with surprising precision at Arthur’s tunic, taking hold of the hem and yanking.
And that’s too much, really, that’s just too much.
“I don’t know what kind of mischief Merlin allows,” Arthur snaps, trying to wrestle his tunic out of Aithusa’s teeth, “but I’ll not have you chewing on me!”
The dragon’s eyes narrow. It’s really a horrible thing, to have a dragon look at him like that.
Arthur closes his eyes and tries to collect himself. It’s a dragon, but it’s Merlin’s dragon. And Merlin is a dragonlord. He wouldn’t let Aithusa run amok if it was a danger to anyone. Well, outside of that one time, but that was different and he put a stop to it as soon as he could.
“Listen,” Arthur says, forcing himself to lean forward and look into one of Aithusa’s massive eyes. It stares back intently. “Did Merlin let you in here?”
After a moment, it shakes its head. Arthur hums.
“Then why—” he stops himself, rephrases, “Did you just want to visit?”
Again, Aithusa shakes its head. No. No?
“You’re here for a reason, then?”
Yes.
“A good reason, I hope?” Aithusa tilts its head thoughtfully, as if not sure how to answer the question. Arthur frowns and tries again. “Is something wrong?”
A solemn nod.
Arthur sighs. “Of course.” He crosses his arms over his chest, wondering how the hell he’s supposed to figure out what is wrong with yes or no questions, when he is struck by a thought that churns unhappily in his stomach. The corners of his mouth tighten and he has to take a deep breath before asking, “Did something happen to Merlin?”
Aithusa nods enthusiastically and grabs at Arthur’s tunic again. This time, he allows it, blanching at the idea that whatever happened to Merlin is bad enough that he sent a dragon to fetch Arthur. He takes another measure of Aithusa and begins to think that the issue isn’t how it got into his room, but how they are going to get out together, unnoticed.
“Will you bring me to him?” he asks.
The face the dragon makes either means yes, please, let’s go or how is someone with such a small brain going to be the king of an entire kingdom?
~*~
It turns out that Aithusa did come in through the window, which is only impressive until Arthur watches it fly away. He stares, thinking that communication must have failed him somewhere in this instance. Then Aithusa pauses, bobbing impatiently in the air and looking at Arthur over its shoulder with a gesture of its teeth that seems to mean that he should hurry if he doesn’t want to get bitten. Then it continues on its path, hovering over the trees for a second before it lands out of sight.
Alright, Arthur thinks. I’ll meet the dragon in the forest. Sure. Why not?
He makes his way down to the stables, politely battering away anyone who tries to make him stop and talk. One of the stableboys prepares a horse while Arthur tries not to look too jittery or like he’s doing anything out of the ordinary. Then he sets off as quickly as he can without anyone taking notice, biting down on his lip with the need to run after Aithusa. As soon as he judges that he is far enough away from the main gate, he calls out for it.
For a moment, there is no indication that the dragon has heard him. Arthur sighs, squinting out into the trees. He is so focused on finding Aithusa between the trunks and underbrush that the flash of white in his peripheral, followed by an excited screech, almost sends him flailing off his horse.
He steadies himself, then asks, “Where is he?”
Aithusa turns away from Arthur, takes a few galloping steps forward, and sends itself up into the air with a surge of its wings. The force sends a gust of wind back at Arthur, briefly taking his breath away, but he watches the path Aithusa takes, flying low over the treetops, and urges his horse forward.
~*~
They travel for some time before Aithusa lands again. Arthur draws his horse to a stop and leans forward to scan the area, hoping that he will find Merlin unharmed and laughing a bit embarrassedly over some mishap or another that he already got himself out of. But Merlin isn’t here, and before Arthur can ask why they stopped, Aithusa wisps over, startling Arthur’s horse, and latches its teeth into Arthur’s boot.
“Don’t bite!” Arthur grunts, trying to pull his foot free without hurting the dragon’s teeth. “Hey, what did I say about biting, Aithusa?”
The dragon releases him with a grunt and takes a step backwards, looking at Arthur pointedly. He stares back at it for an overdrawn moment before it clicks.
“Off the horse?” he asks, raising his brows.
Aithusa huffs a heavy breath and turns, stomping off into the trees without waiting. Arthur slides down, quickly leading his horse to a tree with a low branch he can tie it to so that it doesn’t roam, and then takes off after the dragon.
While it isn’t stranger than finding a dragon in his bedroom or riding through the woods on horseback based on the directions of the same dragon, Arthur can’t help but periodically glance over at Aithusa, who is walking by his side as if this is completely normal. Arthur supposes it must be ordinary for Aithusa. After all, it probably trots around with Merlin all the time. And who knows who else.
Arthur feels reassured that Aithusa is actually leading him to Merlin and not some sort of ambush when he sees a very familiar horse cheerfully eating grass amongst the trees.
They step out into a very small clearing and then Aithusa stops, shooting Arthur a look he can’t quite read. He instead turns his attention out, taking in the tall, weedy grass and what appears to be an oversized nest that must belong to the dragon. It admittedly looks a bit scant to Arthur, who had been under the impression that dragons were meant to have hoards and be creatures of comfort and pleasure. Or something like that. He doesn’t really know. But he’d sort of expected Merlin to make sure the dragon that he hatched himself—and Arthur doesn’t really understand that either, to be honest—had a cozier lifestyle.
Arthur’s eyes catch on something to the side of the nest, and flick over to study it. There is a lump in the grass, dark and long and curled slightly inward. It takes Arthur a few beats too long to realize that the lump is Merlin.
Arthur’s breath catches in his throat and his hands are on Merlin before he notices that he has crossed the patch of ground between them and dropped to his knees. He takes a quick assessment of the body heaped before him, touching his hands down tentatively. Merlin seems to be breathing fine, and his face is smooth and expressionless, not indicating any pain or discomfort. Carefully, Arthur rolls him onto his back, cupping the curve of his head in his palm so that it doesn’t roll harshly.
Arthur gingerly runs his hands over Merlin to search for bumps and scrapes that might be hidden from view. Merlin doesn’t wake up, but his nose scrunches and he mumbles a few meaningless words. At the jumbled sound of his voice, Arthur’s breath catches in his throat. His eyes feel warm and prickly, but he ignores the sensation and focuses instead on yanking off his gloves and settling his hands on either side of Merlin’s face, tapping the man’s cheek with his thumb.
“Merlin,” he snips a bit more aggressively than he intends. Nothing. Nothing. Arthur shifts one hand down, putting his palm flat on Merlin’s chest and giving him a small jostle. “Merlin,” he says again.
“Mmgh,” Merlin groans, lips pressing together in displeasure. His eyes creep open one at a time, taking in the sky overhead and nearly shutting again at the painful brightness before Arthur gives him another shake. Merlin looks at him blearily. “What?” he mumbles. His hands unfurl and raise just enough so that his guileless knuckles brush Arthur’s stomach. Arthur swallows and takes the hand in his own, keeping it still against him. “You’re…what? Breakfast?”
Arthur’s mouth pops open and he has to take a moment to just stare at Merlin before he can make himself say, “Stay awake.”
Merlin’s brows furrow at the command. He shakes his head and mumbles, “No,” and then lets his eyes drop shut.
“Merlin,” Arthur says, voice firm. The way he would speak to any knight injured in battle, demanding that they keep their focus, keep their breath, keep their life. “Look at me. Are you hurt anywhere?”
Slowly, Merlin opens his eyes into slits and finds Arthur again. “Mmm.” His throat shifts with a swallow, and Arthur wishes that he had a waterskin. “Head.”
“Did you hit your head?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before feeling along the bow of Merlin’s skull, searching for bumps or cuts that he might have missed before. All he finds is hair grown slightly shaggy and a smooth, unmarred scalp. His hand stays in place, anyway.
Merlin screws his mouth up and sighs. “Hurts. Just a little.”
“Okay,” Arthur says slowly, tilting his eyes over to look at Aithusa, as if the dragon might help him with this. “Gaius will fix that.”
Merlin smacks his lips in the same way he does when they wake up at camp, as if this is nothing more than a nap. Then he opens his eyes wider and follows Arthur’s line of sight over to the dragon. As soon as he sees it, Merlin’s eyes crinkle with a smile and he sighs, “Aithusa.”
Aithusa moves forward, snuffling its nose around Merlin’s torso. Merlin gives a weak chuckle and drops the hand not currently clasped with Arthur’s to the side of the dragon’s head, giving it a tender pat. Aithusa stares down at Merlin, its head gesturing minutely in Arthur’s direction.
Getting the sense that they are talking about him, Arthur cuts in with, “What happened? Did you fall? You weren’t riding the dragon, were you?” Merlin had mentioned doing something similar with the bigger dragon before, and Arthur had quickly attempted to strike it from his memory. There are just some things he doesn’t need to have stuck in his head, and clumsy Merlin soaring around in the sky at high speeds is one of them.
“Aithusa,” Merlin corrects. He shakes his head, then stops with a wince. “I’m really okay, Arthur. I just overdid it.”
“Overdid what?” Arthur asks, looking around the small space for any indication of what could have been happening. Nest construction, perhaps? Only Merlin could get hurt stacking leaves.
“Magic,” Merlin answers in a rush. He always says magic like that, like he needs to get it off his tongue, as if Arthur is going to hear the word off his lips and change his mind. I won’t. he wants to shout. Can’t you get it through your thick skull that I could never—but then Merlin continues on to say, “Healing. I’ll sleep it off.”
And then another very important part of the story clicks in Arthur’s head and he asks, “Who were you healing out here? Where are they?”
Merlin looks at Arthur like he has said something completely foolish, but it is fond enough that there is no pang of embarrassment.
He directs his eyes pointedly at the dragon. “Aithusa.”
Aithusa doesn’t look pained or ill. As a matter of fact, Arthur finds it hard to believe that the dragon was ever unwell, based on how much energy it seems to have. But it does seem morose at the answer, its lips pulling back over its teeth. Merlin looks at it again, communicating in that silent way of theirs.
“I wanted to do it,” Merlin says, giving Aithusa another reassuring pat. “I’m just glad it worked.”
Arthur looks the dragon up and down, then asks, “But it’s fine, now? Everything is…back in order?”
Aithusa gives Arthur that narrow-eyed look he’s becoming all-too familiar with. Merlin sighs. “Yeah, he’s fine. I actually managed to heal him.” With that, Merlin’s mouth glides into a pleased smile and he slumps back.
“Good,” Arthur says, squeezing Merlin’s hand. “Time to see Gaius, then.”
“Alright,” Merlin groans, “I’m going to get up.”
Arthur waits, but Merlin doesn’t move. He remains perfectly still, staring down his body at his own boots with a passive expression.
“Merlin,” Arthur says as calmly as he can. “Did you mean tonight or were you just assuring me that you don’t plan to be a permanent fixture in these woods?”
Merlin shoots him a look that is similar enough to the dragon’s glare that it is striking. “You’re always rushing me.”
Arthur shrugs. “I want to know where to place my expectations.”
“I’m going to get up,” Merlin repeats, tensing his arms as if to start levering himself up. He doesn’t move. “Now.”
“Alright,” Arthur says with a nod.
“I’m ready to get up.”
“I’m sure.”
“Just…yeah, just…I just need a second.” His arms slacken, though his fingers remain firmly tangled around Arthur’s. They sit there for a few minutes, just breathing.
When it seems like Merlin isn’t going to make another attempt at lifting himself any time soon, Arthur tilts his head forward so he is looking directly down on him and asks, as straight-faced as he can, “Merlin, would you like my help?”
Perhaps Arthur should be insulted by how long it takes for Merlin to nod, but he’s really not sure whether he should attribute the hesitation to actual indecision or if Merlin is just navigating how to move his head.
“Alright,” Arthur says, shifting himself around so that he is better anchored. “Here we go.” He starts to scoop one of his arms under Merlin’s knees to lift him when Merlin wriggles, bringing his legs down over Arthur’s arm like an iron bar, pinning him at an awkward angle. “Merlin, what?” Arthur snaps, yanking his arm free as best he can without flipping Merlin.
Merlin jabs a finger upward, almost hitting Arthur’s nose in his adamancy. “Carrying isn’t helping.”
“Oh, for—” he rubs at his eye, taking a deep breath. “Fine. Fine.”
Arthur gets to his feet, carefully steps around Merlin so that his feet are near the other man’s head, and then bends to hook his hands under his arms. Then he lifts, both of them grunting with the effort, and hoists Merlin up to his feet. Merlin stumbles back, legs rubbery, and thumps against Arthur’s chest, nearly sending them both back down. Aithusa watches with what might be an amused glint, and isn’t helpful in the slightest.
“Sorry,” Merlin breathes, patting Arthur’s arm. Arthur can feel the shift of Merlin’s ribs when he breathes, a steady in and out against his own chest. He hums his acceptance, not trusting his voice to deliver the message without additional weight.
Once he has control of himself, Arthur manhandles Merlin over to his side, slinging Merlin’s arm over his shoulder and resting his hand on Merlin’s side for added support. They shift around for a few seconds, making sure that they won’t plod on each other’s feet when they get to walking and that Merlin isn’t dizzy or lightheaded or going to vomit on Arthur.
“Let’s get moving, then,” Arthur says, waiting for Merlin’s nod before they begin trudging forward. Aithusa walks on Merlin’s other side, ready in case Arthur fails to support him. Arthur tightens his grip in response and spares a glare for the dragon, though he can tell it lacks the intended heat.
~*~
Aithusa takes them as far as he can before Merlin tiredly mumbles a goodbye. Arthur watches the dragon hesitate and nudge Merlin’s hand with its snout, giving him a pleading look.
“Sorry,” Merlin says, eyes a little pinker than they had been. “I’ll visit you again really soon, I promise.”
Arthur feels like he has swallowed a rock. “And me, if you’d like. I’ll visit too,” he says, keeping his eyes firmly on his horse so that he doesn’t have to see anyone’s response. Then, darting his tongue out to wet his lips, he adds, “One day, there will be no need for secret visits. I promise.”
Neither of them says anything in response to that, though a quick glance over shows a contemplative tug to Merlin’s mouth. Aithusa nuzzles Merlin one last time, then shifts back into the trees and disappears.
~*~
Gaius stares.
“And how, exactly, did you get into this state?” The admonishment is clear in his tone, but Merlin can see the concern in his eyes and Gaius’ hands are warm and careful where they touch.
Arthur doesn’t give Merlin time to answer for himself. Probably because he thinks Merlin would try to come up with a lie to avoid getting in trouble. Fair enough. “He went to the forest alone to heal the dragon.”
“Aithusa,” Merlin corrects again, though he is tired enough that it really could have been any dragon or even a strange lizard or particularly pale boar and he isn’t sure he’d be able to tell the difference.
“Yes,” Arthur agrees, “thank you. To heal Aithusa.”
Gaius’ brow shoots up. Merlin stares back blankly, trying to offer a smile. After a moment, Gaius’ agitation softens back into concern.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Gaius asks. Then he looks at Arthur and says, “Sire, could you please go up to Merlin’s room and fetch his blanket?”
Arthur glances over his shoulder just before starting up the stairs, though Merlin doesn’t acknowledge it. Gaius has started unlacing his boots, mumbling something to his ward that Merlin only half-listens to. He has started to droop forward again, his forehead resting against Gaius’ shoulder, unbothered by the shift of muscle as the older man works.
Moments later, he is asleep.
~*~
When Merlin wakes again, he is tucked under a pile of blankets, exhaustion still plucking at his eyes and making his brain feel like it has folded over onto itself. But he is warm and comfortable and content with the knowledge that Aithusa is well and Merlin will be as soon as he sleeps this off. It is dark, and orange candlelight bounces along the walls from the wax stub practically melted onto Gaius’ worktable.
He’s just about to let himself drift off again when something shifts to his left, and Arthur asks, “Are you awake?”
Merlin breathes in slowly and turns his head to see Arthur sitting on a wooden chair that has been moved in close enough to the bed that his knees bump the frame. There is a softness of his features, particularly at the corners of his eyes, and his hair is sticking up oddly at the side. He’d been sleeping, right there in that chair, probably resting his cheek on one hand and slumping back, waking at Merlin’s slight jostle.
“Sort of,” Merlin says, keeping his voice low. He’s distracted, looking at sleep-mushed Arthur, wondering at the tender heat that lights in his chest. Merlin rarely gets to appreciate this moment, too busy rousing himself from a night sleeping on the ground around a fire or rolling his eyes and shaking Arthur’s blanket until he unhands it and gives in to his schedule. It’s nice, he thinks, that vulnerable quiet.
But Arthur breaks the moment, leaning forward so that Merlin can look nowhere but his eyes. The resting thump, thump, thump of his heart quickens at the proximity, at the uncertain intensity of Arthur’s stare. They seem to sit in that moment for hours, time stretching slow and patient like spilled honey.
When Merlin doesn’t think he can take it anymore, doesn’t think he can exist in this thick and sweet and golden moment without leaning in even closer and doing something absolutely foolish, he shuffles his shoulders self-consciously and croaks, “What?”
Arthur swallows. His nostrils flare, and suddenly his eyes tear away from Merlin, settling instead on the far wall as he says, “I’m sorry if you didn’t feel you could tell me about Aithusa. I know that I’m still not…I’m not always as comfortable as I should be about these things. But I don’t want to make you feel like you have to hide.”
It takes a moment for Merlin to respond; he is still alarmed at the loss of eye contact, and the feeling only intensifies at Arthur’s unexpected words.
“It wasn’t that,” he rushes to say once his tongue peels off the roof of his mouth. “Really, Arthur. I just thought I could handle it.”
Arthur nods, though he doesn’t look like he believes it. “Still. Next time, tell me. Or someone, at least. I just want to make sure someone is there to make sure you make it back in one piece.”
Merlin chews his lip, then smiles warmly. He slides one of his hands out from under the blanket and turns it so that his palm is facing upward. Arthur tracks the movement curiously, but doesn’t reach back. Merlin takes a calming breath and says, “Would you get over yourself and hold my hand?”
Arthur blinks, then a laugh startles out of him. “Alright, Merlin.” There should be an insult after that, or a haughty comment at the least. But there isn’t. Arthur rests his palm down over Merlin’s and watches with a cautious stillness as Merlin takes the final steps, lacing their fingers through each other and holding tight.
Arthur sighs. “Aithusa was in my bedroom. I thought he’d come to eat me in retaliation for years of torment.”
“Hmmm. Not this time,” Merlin hums, drawing their joined hands to his heart and letting their weight rest there. He closes his eyes. “Go back to sleep if you can.”
A silent moment passes.
“Merlin, you wouldn’t let your dragon eat me.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to have to hear you say it.”
Merlin smiles. “Arthur, I promise. If Aithusa eats you, it’s only because he didn’t ask for my blessing beforehand.”
“Merlin. Really.”
“Sweet dreams.”