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Merthur week 2023 day one: Their theme song + Red
And as the world comes to an end
I'll be here to hold your hand
' Cause you're my king and I'm your lionheart
Merlin always thought that red was Arthur’s color. The bright vermillion cape that wraps the knights of Camelot; the beautiful emblem of the golden lion surrounded by a crimson sea; Merlin’s old scarlet neckerchief wrapping Arthur’s arm on tournaments; the nice blush that crept on Arthur’s cheeks when he was bashful.
Red was Arthur’s color. He brightens like the most ardent fire with it, he shines like the once and future king should.
Except now.
“Come on, Arthur” Merlin pleads, adding pressure to the wound on the king’s side, the sword must have punctured his liver by the looks of it, and there are still too many people around them, the battle not over yet, for Merlin to try to use magic to save him. “You’ve had worse, and walked off alright, I don’t want to carry your sorry royal arse all the way back to Camelot, I’m not that young anymore.”
There was too much blood already, forming a pool on the mushy grass, and the battle was still going strong around them. Leon and Elyan were doing their best to protect them, Gwaine was nowhere to be seen and Percival was already favoring his right side, wounded too.
Bandits, it is always damned bandits every time they put a foot on the valley of the fallen kings.
“Merlin, do something!” ordered Elyan, desperation palpable in his voice.
“I either finish this fight or keep Arthur alive,” he reproached, “so unless you know how to return all this blood to his body don’t ask me to multitask.”
Basic healing incantations are all he can do right now, their environment is too chaotic to try to use more complicated spells, and he can’t risk losing control of his magic right now, not when Arthur was bleeding to death.
Red. There is too much red staining Arthur’s shirt, and for the first time, Merlin doesn’t find it beautiful.
He closes his eyes, the language of the old religion rolling out of his tongue nearly automatically. He ignores the shouts of the knights, the roars of the bandits, the clashing of swords, and just concentrates on Arthur: on his bleeding wound, on the pool of blood underneath them, on the bright red soul that burns his pupils even though his eyes are closed.
A very familiar hand clasps his own and Merlin opens his eyes with a gasp.
“Arthur?”
The king is barely awake, Merlin doubts he is completely aware of what is happening.
“Save them,” Arthur moaned, “save the knights.”
“I can’t, I need to keep you alive you dollophead.”
“Save them,” Arthur insisted, apparently more awake than Merlin thought. “I’ll be here to hold your hand” He squeezed said hand.
Merlin looked down, everything was bright red: Arthur’s chest and side, the floor underneath them, and both of their hands.
“Yes, my lord.” Merlin choked and, without releasing his king’s hand, he planted his free palm on the grass and exclaimed “ Ic þe bebiede þæt þu abifest nu!”
A familiar, but powerful spell: a command to the earth and everything within it to shake.
“Take cover!” Leon ordered and the knights receded until all four of them were surrounding Arthur and Merlin. Nothing bad will happen to them, not while Merlin is the one controlling the spell, he can’t afford to lose anyone, not again, not anymore.