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Merlin pushed through dozens of spitting, grunting, bleeding men and squinted against the descending sun in search of his knights.
Lancelot fought one of Uther’s men to Merlin’s left, the mace as light as the wind in his expert hands. Gwaine and Elyan fenced a group of Camelot’s knights back-to-back, their cackles light and airy. To their right, Percival lifted a man straight off the ground, his howl booming, and tossed him against another opposing man who cornered Leon. Arthur pivoted just beneath the soaring soldier and dodged multiple fists and swords and spears to protect the warlock that would preserve magic and bring all its persecutors to their knees.
Merlin noted it all and focused on the sure-footed brute swinging a sword at Arthur’s heels.
He raised a hand, his magic surging through his outstretched limb, and parted his lips with a command.
“Forbearnan firgen...”
Steel struck Merlin’s chest. Pointed thorns ripped through his tunic, then his skin, clawing a trail of spurting red. Merlin drew in a wheeze, choked, and fell face-first into the dirt with one hand clutching his heart.
A sound, raw and feral like the voices of witches burned, echoed in the solid circle of war.
“Merlin!”
The warlock blinked, the movements of fighting men slow and blurred. The clay turned rusty and wet in the shape of his body. Merlin dug his fingers into the loose crumbs and watched them absorb his own fluids. Somewhere above, steel ripped through flesh in three quick slices. Boots kicked up the dust. A blonde head appeared, framing wide, wet eyes the color of a stormy sky.
Merlin parted his lips, coughed. “Clotpole?”
The prince, the knight, the lover smoothed his creases of anguish and turned his face to stone.
Bulbous arms slithered beneath Merlin and separated him from the sop of his draining fluids. A flash of pain spread through his chest. He cried out, pressing a hand against his wound to shield it from the open air. Arthur did not stop, slow, speak. He simply threw the trembling warlock over his shoulder and skirted past the slew of battling men, waded through carnage, spilling the blood of any who blocked his path into the thick trees.
The grunts, groans, and battle cries diminished as they left their dedicated army behind.
Merlin’s eyes closed upon the image of Arthur’s bloody footprints on the emerald underbrush and the neckerchief tied around a sculped bicep.
……..
Darkness fell.
Merlin awoke to the pungent scent of herbs and a distant throbbing in his chest. A cloth wove tightly under his arm, around his shoulder, and tugged unpleasantly when he shifted. He knew better than to tear it off, knew that just beneath lay the portal to his heart, the core of his magic, now bared and vulnerable to every tortuous predator who stood with Camelot.
Every heartbeat ignited the wound like a pyre, a reminder of his mortality.
The fire’s licking light found a set of knuckles covering a handsome, crumbling face. Strong, gloveless fingers pushed into tired eyes and left an impression on the prince’s hardened cheeks.
Arthur sighed heavily and slid his hands over his forehead and into hair nearly brown with sweat and dirt and the blood of countless men.
Soft eyes framed in exhaustion landed on Merlin and lips so expressive turned up just enough to convey strained reassurance.
“It’s about time, idiot. It’s good luck I didn’t wake you with one of your ridiculous morning greetings.”
Merlin tasted metal on his tongue and drank it. “I’m not the lazy daisy here, prat.”
He shivered. Arthur came at once, pushing Merlin’s jacket up and over him like a blanket. He ran his hands firmly down Merlin’s arms, chasing away the chill, and lowered the scratchy saddle blanket just enough to check. The prince glared at the oozing wound as if it contained the face of the man responsible for felling the warlock. Now, with their lips a whisper’s distance apart, Merlin asked.
“Arthur, where is the army?”
The prince lowered himself onto the ground and settled a careful arm around Merlin’s narrow waist. He pulled him so gently back against his chest and the surge of warmth pleased both Merlin and the magic within.
“To the east, last I charted. Just outside of the White Mountains. They’ll reach the city walls within a day’s time.”
Merlin hugged the arms that had killed for him and turned into that familiar bicep. Arthur softened the muscle to provide a comforting pillow. The musty scent of a weathered warrior, a protective alpha man, stewed just beneath and soothed the warlock. In turn, the prince nosed at Merlin’s hair, searching, until his larger body eased in temporary relief.
“Why aren’t we with them?”
Arthur breathed, tickling Merlin’s ear.
“Because you’re wounded. The front line is not the place for you to heal.”
A cool wind came through, directing the flames closer and bathing them both in an enchanting glow. Merlin tensed and scooted his weight back into his lover, letting the man provide comfort and care to ease his own fears.
“The men need you, Arthur. You’re the greatest fighter in all Albion.”
“And you, Merlin, are who Albion fights to protect.” He placed a careful palm over the wound. “I’m taking you to the Valley of the Fallen Kings as soon as the sun rises. Uther’s army wouldn’t dare follow.”
His father’s army. Though, Arthur did not call him that any longer. Not since Merlin’s near execution at the king’s hands.
The fire crackled and sent another wave of comforting warmth over the two men who made up one. Merlin settled into his lover’s arms and implored his magic to form a protective bubble around their camp. Arthur placed a gentle hand over his lips, halting the weak attempt.
“No, you need your strength. I’ll keep watch. I’ll protect us.”
Merlin, his eyes drooping, kissed the calloused palm that smelled of tonic, herbs, blood, and Arthur.
“Fine, just don’t let it go to your head. It’s big enough as it is.”
Arthur laughed. Merlin abruptly fell asleep.
……..
Arthur marched with urgency, stumbled, recovered, and woke Merlin from a groggy slumber.
“Arthur?”
He gave no answer, just stared straight ahead unblinking and dripping with sweat. Uneven steps brought them closer, each one less careful and fueled with a slow-growing desperation. It plagued the air alongside the sweet scent of Merlin’s progressing infection.
Both men seemed to sense the passing of precious time, the dying of the day’s light, of Merlin.
The warlock emerged from the warmth of his prince’s chest and blinked away tears welled from suppressing lightning bolts of pain. The dressing, made of Arthur’s tunic, sat heavy with the wound’s secretion, and stunk of sweat and dried blood. Merlin’s magic churned beneath, fighting back against the crippling fever and broken skin. He’d always been rubbish at healing spells, though, and he’d accepted the reality of his likely demise.
Their army would soon breach Camelot’s borders. The prince would fulfill his destiny with the victory, become king, bring about a world where those with magic did not have to live in fear.
Merlin could die knowing he’d succeeded in helping his kind even if that meant leaving the man he loved behind.
“Arthur, you need to rest.”
Arthur hugged Merlin with such possessiveness and plowed ahead. He sniffled and kept his swollen, red-rimmed eyes forward while guiding Merlin’s face back against his thudding athletic heartbeat.
“Go back to sleep, idiot.”
“I’m too heavy.” He croaked. “I’m slowing you down.”
“Hardly.” Arthur scoffed, his lips curling just enough. “You’re all bones, ears, and let’s not forget that mouth.”
Merlin laughed and immediately recoiled at the pain it brought to his wound. Arthur cradled him close. Merlin allowed it, understanding the relief it provided the overprotective man, and searched his foggy mind for a proper rebuttal.
“You don’t have to prance around to impress me, prat. You had me at ‘walk on your knees.’”
Arthur choked, more of a sob than a laugh.
“You are a romantic, aren’t you?” Soft, cold lips marked his burning forehead. “I’m getting you home alive and I’ll have no sass about it.”
……..
They breached the tall statues of kings past shortly after the sun reached its peak.
Arthur stopped, adjusted Merlin in his arms, and lifted his eyes as far as his neck would crane.
“It’s beautiful,” Merlin whispered, his breath short.
Arthur squeezed the warlock and projected hesitation. Merlin met Arthur’s worried eyes and saw his memories reflected. This valley had not always served them well. It’d separated them, made them targets, nearly become both of their graves. The energy coming from within the walls now, though, felt nothing short of welcoming to the soon-to-be king and the warlock who’d brought about a revolution.
“I need to walk from here.”
Arthur studied Merlin carefully before lowering him to his feet. He kept supportive arms around his shoulders and waist and Merlin leaned against the prince’s stronger frame. Putting one foot ahead, he took the steps slowly and bit his tongue through waves of throbbing heat that matched his pulse.
Together, they hobbled through the threshold. Rows of towering rock greeted them along with uneven terrain that presented a challenge to the young warlock whose vision had gone blurry with fever. Arthur led him through so carefully, directing their bodies and keeping a guiding hand on his lower back.
The air around them crackled with energy and all sound ceased minus that created by the two men within. Merlin sensed that they existed in a self-contained world, one safe from any unwelcome presence. When the cave reached out its adoring hand and beckoned the lovers forward, Merlin’s magic latched on desperately. It sent a shiver through his body that immediately alerted his protective other half.
Arthur reached for his sword. Merlin placed a hand on the prince’s and stilled the blade.
“It’s okay, Arthur. It’s only a friendly greeting.” A wave of scorching pain tore through his chest. “Oh…”
“Merlin?”
A sudden weakness claimed his legs. Arthur was there at once, scooping him up easily and taking the stairs down two at a time. He followed directions that Merlin couldn’t see. Perhaps the same hand that guided Merlin into the valley led Arthur through the trees, past the rocks, and straight to the cave already glowing with energy sustained by a natural magic.
Merlin gasped, pressed on his drooling wound, and felt himself fading with the daylight as the clouds invaded.
“Merlin!”
Darkness eclipsed his vision. Merlin felt the rush of warmth when they entered the cave, heard the crunch of gravel under Arthur’s boots, smelled death. The infection kept Merlin in a dungeon, the door firmly locked. He pushed, banged, kicked, screamed, begged for escape. All the while his body rested like a sack of grain in the prince’s arms, showing no sign of life.
The prince’s voice cracked when he beckoned to the cave’s residents.
“My name is Arthur Pendragon and I come seeking healing. The man you know as Emrys has been gravely injured in the war to protect magic. I’ve done what I can, but he needs your help.”
Silence befell them aggressively, a storm of wind and thunder marking each sting of pain just above Merlin’s heart. He sensed Arthur’s impatience, his looming anxiety, as they spun circles within the cave searching for an invisible cure.
“I understand why you wouldn’t wish to help me. My father and I have wronged you and for that I deserve whatever punishment you see fit, but please do not let this warlock suffer for my sins.”
The air stilled. Merlin fought against his comatose state, clawed at it like a brick wall, longed to return to help the man who spoke again through tears of anger.
“If you won’t help him, then teach me how! I’ll do anything that you ask of me. I’ll learn magic, I’ll slay your enemies, I’ll worship at your altar until the day of my death. Please!” A cold wind hit Merlin’s cheek and an involuntary whine escaped his lips. Arthur pulled him close, trembled with frustration. “Your champion is dying and you’re just going to watch?”
Death’s claiming fingers clutched Merlin’s throat. He wheezed, gasped, fought for every breath. They fell to Arthur’s knees in one swift, disorienting drop. Stinging salt rained down upon Merlin’s cheeks, the storm upon them both.
Merlin felt it in the droop of Arthur’s eyelids, his sagging shoulders, his long exhale. The defeat.
No. Arthur, don’t!
The prince took a breath and then did the unthinkable.
“Take my life. It is yours at the price of this warlock’s survival. If only one of us is to live, it must be him because I cannot be a just king without my heart.”
Merlin screamed, clawed at his subconscious wall until he sunk into the depths and sobbed. Outside, the wind kicked up, the crystals glowed in a stunning blue, and a beautiful woman appeared with wavy blonde hair and eyes so bold and familiar.
“Hello, my son. I am here to help.”
……..
Merlin, his physical eyelids closed, watched it all through the wide orbs of his magic.
Arthur rested the warlock’s head on his lap while the beautiful blonde woman lifted the prince’s face by the chin. Swirling cerulean light hovered peacefully and encapsulated them in a protective womb that held the men with a visceral, loving severity.
“Mother? Is it really you?”
The mother bent to their level and whispered so softly that Merlin eased.
“It is I, son.” Arthur sobbed through a smile. “Oh, how you’ve grown.”
An ethereal hand brushed Arthur’s cheek and he leaned into the touch.
“Tell me, my brave boy, what has led you down this path of defiance?”
Arthur slouched within the dirt, his limbs forming a tangled nest for Merlin to rest. Two arms covered the warlock while the remainder of his body slumped like that of a child awaiting punishment. He spoke with a loose tongue, the truth bared before his lost parent.
“Merlin, mother. He’s innocent, brave, and he’d never purposely harm another. He’s saved my life with his magic and Uther, he…” Arthur, his aura dark, spat thorns. “…he tried to have him burned.”
The mother, her beauty breathtaking, smiled so softly that Merlin’s belly warmed with fondness. Arthur trembled, his anger fading with another easy graze of Ygraine’s finger.
“And you love Merlin, yes?”
Merlin felt Arthur’s soft eyes travel over his face. Big, strong fingers carded through his hair and the next words were spoken with a genuine smile.
“More than my own life.”
A smokey hand fell upon Merlin’s face, stroking his sweaty cheek and lingering over the neckerchief placed once again upon his neck by Arthur.
“It is as it was foretold, my son. Arthur and Merlin, two boys born in suffering and united in purpose. Their bond will forge Albion and bring about an age of compassion and acceptance. It is your destiny as well as Merlin’s.” She smiled and her blue lightened. “His will is strong. I can see how he, of all, penetrated your stubborn shell.”
Arthur snorted wetly. Merlin saw his Arthur in her jest and wished she could have lived.
Warmth bloomed where Ygraine touched Merlin’s skin and it traveled through his veins towards his exposed heart. The knot in his neckerchief released and exposed his fragile pulse point. Soft, warm fingers enveloped Arthur’s hand and led it down Merlin’s head. It traveled the summit of his cheekbone, over his now exposed neck, and rested there while his pulse thudded with renewed energy.
Arthur shifted nervously. Ygraine simple nodded.
“Don’t fret, my son. Death cannot touch destiny. It merely huffs and puffs like a king overthrown.”
Merlin’s heart pounded against his open skin, pushing tears from his sealed eyelids. A whine escaped his lips and then the healing hands traveled down, down to his chest and covered his wound. The warlock’s body jolted upright, as if dragged into Arthur’s cupped palm. His pulse raced, his muscle stitched together, his skin expanded and grew over the gaping hole. The pain reached a debilitating peak and then fell from the mountain into nothingness.
Arthur panted. Merlin breathed. Ygraine cooed, her warmth slowly dispersing to the surrounding air.
“Take your mate and bathe with him in the valley’s flowing creek. Wash away the sins of your father, for tomorrow brings about the birth of Albion, my beautifully stubborn boy, and you both must be prepared to take the throne.”
……..
Merlin opened his eyelids and expanded his chest beneath the heavy weight of a sodden, naked, prince.
He worshipped this man like a god- the flawless, smooth skin now glistening with dew, the muscular legs that so perfectly framed his own, and all the parts, soft and hard, covered by the saddle blanket. Wrinkles marred the corners of his eyes and haughty lips quivered in a fragile frown. Merlin placed a finger at Arthur’s jaw, just sound of his own heartbeat, and identified the throbbing pulse beneath. Cool water droplets gathered at the base of wet, blonde hair and traveled down Merlin’s knuckles in a quiet baptism.
His lover blinked against his chest and rose onto strong elbows to reveal the most handsome smile atop their overlapped bodies. A sound like that of a lover reborn emerged with the morning light.
“Rise and shine, idiot.” Arthur laced their naked feet together. “How are you feeling?”
Merlin reached for his wound and found only solid skin, warm and throbbing with life. Arthur flicked jesting eyes his way and Merlin spoke between easy, painless breaths.
“Alive.” He poked Arthur’s ankle with his toe to emphasize the point. “Would be better without your massive head crushing me.”
Arthur crawled up his body just enough to laugh in his face and rest their foreheads together. A warm thumb traced Merlin’s cheekbone and a stray droplet fell from Arthur’s hair, landing on Merlin’s lips.
“Good to see you’re back to your self, Merlin.” Arthur brushed wetness from the warlock's cheek. Not tears- fresh, clean water from the stream. “I thought I’d lost you. If not for my mother...”
Memories of the enchanting woman surfaced in Merlin’s mind, and he clutched Arthur tightly to ease his loss.
“She’s beautiful, your mother.” Merlin brushed a lock of hair from Arthur’s temple. “She’s also right. You are a stubborn prat, always trying to die for me.”
Arthur barked a laugh. “My stubbornness saved us both, didn’t it?” He licked his lips and leaned in. “Don’t suppose she’s watching now?”
Merlin bit his lip. “Hmm, I think she has better things to do than watch her son snog some idiot warlock.”
“Indeed, terrible sight really.”
Arthur lowered himself onto Merlin’s bare body with such care, framing him in strong limbs, and joined their mouths in a seal of lips containing roving tongues that tasted of death and grief and resurrection and miracles.
……..
Merlin opened his eyes upon the next sunrise to find Camelot up in flames. Fireworks, the product of magic, decorated the sky in the most stunning colors and shapes and lit the valley like a candle in the darkness.
The signal that the citadel had been taken and their army the victor.
At the edge of the precipice Merlin found Arthur donned in stunning new robes, a gift from Ygraine. The prince stood tall and proud and watched the birth of Albion in the ruins of his old kingdom with the most breathtaking smile.
Merlin studied the remaining robes to their left. An impressive royal blue cape capped the pile. Merlin stood, the saddle blanket wrapped like a cloak, and covered the short distance to his king. He laid the cape upon those broad shoulders and circled Arthur, fastening the golden clasps and smoothing it down so carefully. Arthur’s adoring gaze warmed Merlin and reminded him of their days as prince and servant.
Arthur looped an arm around Merlin’s waist and tugged him into a spooning embrace, kissing him softly on the crown of his head as they admired the ashes upon which they’d construct their new home.
“Are you ready, idiot?”
With tears in his eyes, Merlin brought the royal palms that had healed his body, saved his kind, and rebuilt their world, to his lips and kissed them in answer.