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By the time Arthur screams a warning, it’s too late. The arrow is already flying towards Merlin, who’s too ridiculously oblivious to notice. Arthur throws a dagger at the archer, and runs towards the warlock, cursing himself for not noticing how far apart they had gotten. The arrow lands in Merlin’s back with a sickening thunk. Arthur screams Merlin’s name. Merlin looks at Arthur, confusion written across his face. Then, to Arthur’s horror, Merlin’s eyes glaze over, and he collapses to the ground.
Arthur falls to his knees and skids across the ground to Merlin’s side. He desperately grabs the man’s shoulders and shakes him.
“Merlin!”
Merlin is unresponsive.
“No, no, no don’t do this to me Merlin,” Arthur pleads, pulling Merlin into his arms and gently cradling him.
Merlin remains still, eyes staring at the sky, empty of all thought.
Arthur raises his hand to Merlin’s neck, fumbling for a pulse.
He finds none.
Fighting back treacherous tears, Arthur reaches up and brushes Merlin’s eyelids closed. He smoothes a rebellious strand of hair out of Merlin’s face with a tenderness he would never have dared to show before.
Suddenly, he wonders if Merlin knows just how much he mattered to Arthur. Arthur had always operated under the assumption that Merlin understood that Arthur’s manhandling and insults were always just a complicated way of saying something else. But what if Merlin hadn’t understood? Now - now he would never know.
This is all his fault.
Arthur has always held himself responsible for Merlin, even after he discovered his bumbling servant was actually the most powerful sorcerer to ever live.
Now Arthur has failed Merlin. Just like he’s failed everyone else he’s ever loved.
Arthur wants nothing more than to rip the arrow from Merlin’s heart and stab it through his own. Death would provide him with a permanent escape from this agony. But he doesn’t deserve that escape. He must live with the reality of Merlin’s death. This is his punishment for his failure.
***
Arthur doesn’t know how long it’s been when he finally forces himself to stand. The blood - Merlin’s blood, he realizes, and immediately feels nauseous - is drying on his hands in a sticky red layer.
He knows he should bury Merlin, but he can’t bear to do anything that final right now. Instead, he decides to carefully cover Merlin with his blanket while he goes to the nearby stream.
Arthur desperately scrubs at his palms, trying to wash away the dried blood. The water is freezing cold, but he doesn’t care. The numbing sensation is almost welcome. If only he could numb his heart so easily.
Eventually, he can’t avoid returning to their makeshift camp anymore. As he pushes through the brambles, he recalls how last night - had it really only been last night? - Merlin had stumbled around, clumsily setting up the campfire, even though Arthur argued that Merlin could just do it with magic. However, despite Merlin’s stubborn insistence on doing stuff the “normal way”, their meal had somehow turned out to be Arthur’s favorite stew, even though Arthur had packed the food himself, and had no recollection of putting any of those ingredients in their bags.
Arthur had taken it all for granted.
Tears prick at the corners of Arthur’s eyes.
At long last, he reaches the campsite. Merlin is still where he left him, tucked in underneath Arthur’s blanket, so serene that for a sickening moment Arthur almost believes that this has all been a dream and Merlin is just sleeping. Unfortunately, his fantasy is shattered by the unnatural tinge to Merlin’s cheeks and the sorcerer’s total lack of movement.
Arthur can’t take it anymore.
He crashes to the ground beside Merlin. For the first time in years, he stops repressing all his emotions, letting them instead come rushing to the surface in full force. Arthur hasn’t cried in a very long time, thanks to his father mentally and physically beating into him a fear of showing weakness. Now, in the middle of the woods, free of all onlookers, and with the pain too much to bear, Arthur begins to sob, releasing the sorrow, anger, and self-loathing that has been building up for so long.
***
The bandits had attacked early that morning, right as Merlin was packing up their blankets. At first, it had been a simple enough battle, considering Merlin had just started throwing the men into trees while Arthur had looked on in admiration, and insisted to himself that he was not in fact incredibly turned on by Merlin’s golden eyes and display of raw power. Then, a haggard, gangly man had appeared, enshrouded in dark robes, and that was when the tide had turned. The haggard man had turned out to be a fairly competent sorcerer, and what with making certain that Arthur was safe and fighting off the sorcerer at the same time, Merlin had gotten a little distracted.
That was how, right as the last of the bandits had fallen, and the sorcerer had evaporated into dust, Merlin had let his guard down, and Arthur had failed to defend him in his moment of weakness.
***
Arthur should be returning to Camelot. He knows this. And yet, he can’t bring himself to return, because returning means facing his father, who will scoff at his grief, and tell him Merlin was just a servant. Even worse, returning means breaking the hearts of Gwen and the knights, who will inevitably blame him for Merlin’s death. Perhaps people like Gwen and Leon will be too kind to say it, but he’ll see it in their eyes anyway. Although the sentiment is entirely justified, Arthur is too weak to stand his thoughts being confirmed by others, even if he does deserve it.
So instead, Arthur continues to lie next to Merlin, quietly crying, until eventually he drifts into the kind of deep and exhausted sleep you can only achieve after a particularly traumatic event.
***
The first stars glitter in the sky as Merlin wakes in confusion. The last thing he remembers clearly is hearing Arthur scream his name with a look of horror on his face, and falling into darkness.
He shifts. There’s a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. A thick blanket lies on top of him, all but smothering him. He flails his arms around, attempting to push it off. Something seems to be weighing it down; he struggles more urgently. In the process, his hand violently collides with a warm, solid lump.
Merlin freezes.
The lump emits a grunt, and shifts.
Merlin’s heart pounds.
Someone is lying next to him.
Has he been captured? Is the person next to him a guard sent to ensure he doesn’t try to escape?
The lump rolls over, muttering “Good gods Merlin! Can’t you keep your arms to yourself?”
“Arthur!” exclaims Merlin, sighing in relief.
His words, or rather, word, produce a most unusual reaction in his friend. Arthur shoots upright, eyes wide in the twilight.
“MERLIN?!” he practically shouts, staring at said person. There may be minimal lighting, but Merlin can’t help but notice that the prince is unusually pale.
“Y-yes?” says Merlin. He’s used to Arthur complaining about being woken, but this is new.
Things get significantly stranger when Arthur, instead of elaborating at all on absolutely anything, like why they’re napping instead of being in Camelot reporting the bandit attack, slaps himself.
Merlin stares. Clearly the recent increase in workload has been getting to Arthur more than he thought.
“Are you alright?” he asks in a half-teasing, half-have-you-lost-your-sanity tone, beginning to sit up.
Arthur tackles Merlin. Merlin lets out an oomph as the full weight of the prince lands on his chest, but before he can demand an explanation, Arthur gathers Merlin into his arms and violently embraces him, burying his face in Merlin’s shoulder.
For the second time in the past minute, Merlin freezes.
Arthur has never hugged him before.
Tentatively, he wraps his arms around Arthur, pulling him closer. Arthur’s shoulders tremble. It takes a second for Merlin to realize exactly what is happening, but when he does, he has to restrain a gasp.
The crown prince of Camelot is crying.
Merlin has absolutely no idea what to do. Arthur cries even less than he hugs: as in, double never. Merlin’s always the one to shed the tears, while Arthur stands stoically by, masking his feelings with indifference.
Despite his shock at this unprecedented development, Merlin runs a soothing hand down Arthur’s spine, and opens his mouth to murmur something calming. But his words are forever forgotten when Arthur, lifting his head, crushes his lips to Merlin’s.
It’s a stumbling, violent, sloppy kiss at first. Merlin is too startled to do anything, except to simply lie there, tasting the bittersweet taste of Arthur.
Then, at last, just as Arthur begins to draw away, Merlin recovers enough to reciprocate, leaning up, pushing back into Arthur’s space and capturing his lips between his own. Arthur hungrily responds, lacing a hand under Merlin’s neck and pulling him even closer, while Merlin cards his hands through Arthur’s hair. Arthur’s tears are trailing down his face and into both of their mouths, making the kiss distinctly salty.
After several delightful minutes? hours? spent in this manner, Arthur pulls away. Merlin wants nothing more than to continue kissing the prince until they both rot away, and he desperately reaches for the blonde. Arthur grabs his hands and gently pins them above Merlin’s head. Then, instead of leaning in, he just stares at Merlin.
Merlin blinks. He’s used to Arthur staring at him; lately, the prince has been doing it a lot, thanks to Merlin accidentally revealing his magic. But this is a new stare, one that doesn’t attempt to peel off every layer of Merlin’s soul to find the truth, but instead simply…observes.
“You died.”
It’s so soft that Merlin almost doesn’t hear it.
“What?” he asks, partially because he thinks he misheard and partially because obviously he didn’t since he’s very much alive.
Arthur lowers himself so that his nose brushes Merlin’s.
“You died,” he repeats. “You died and there was nothing I could do to save you.”
The heartbreak is evident in Arthur’s voice; it’s the most vulnerable he’s ever sounded. Then again, given the events of the past hour, Merlin probably shouldn’t be too surprised.
He whispers softly “Well, I’m alive now…even if I have no idea how.”
“I don’t care how,” mutters Arthur. “All that matters is that you’re alive.”
Merlin is in fervent agreement with that, but he decides not to say so, at risk of shattering this rare moment of vulnerability.
Arthur continues to maintain his intense eye contact with Merlin.
Just as Merlin is about to reluctantly suggest that they attempt to locate a new campsite, Arthur breaks the silence once again.
“If this has anything to do with your magic, I’m glad.”
Merlin sucks in a breath.
This isn’t the first time they’ve discussed his magic since Arthur watched Merlin blast a bandit out of the way a few months ago. In fact, they’ve talked about it a decent amount. However, this is the first time that Arthur has brought it up himself. Merlin has the sense that the prince is alright with him being a powerful sorcerer (more than alright if he’s going off of recent events), but he’s still shy about the topic. After years of fearing for his life, it’s hard to get used to Arthur knowing, and even harder to dare to think that Arthur might not mind.
So Merlin inhales softly and then whispers “You’re…glad?”
“Yes!” says Arthur, nodding emphatically. “If it saved you, I am forever indebted to it.”
Merlin smiles in the dark.
“What would I do without my bumbling manservant?” Arthur adds.
“Probably strangle yourself trying to put on a shirt.”
That earns Merlin a swat, but there’s no real power behind the movement, and the hand somehow ends up cradling his face instead.
They’re silent then for some time, simply savoring being in each other’s presence, until Arthur shifts, and Merlin realizes that the prince is distinctly uncomfortable about something.
“Arthur?” he asks softly. “What is it?”
Merlin feels Arthur tense above him. The silence stretches on.
“Arthur?”
Nothing.
“Arthur, it’s alright. You can tell -”
“I thought you were dead,” Arthur rushes. “I thought you were dead and I thought it was because I had failed you and I thought that you had died and I had never told you how I felt - how I loved you and - I thought you had died thinking that I didn’t value you as anything other than a useless manservant. Which, by the way, you’re not. You’re extremely useful and I couldn't live without you and you’ve protected me for all these years and I never even thanked you for that and you would have died not knowing that -”
Arthur probably would have continued down this path for some time if Merlin had not cut off the panicked ramble in the only way he could. In one sudden movement, he pulled Arthur down once more, kissing him long and hard. Into the kiss he poured everything he had, attempting to convey the message that all was forgiven, that the long years of labor had been worth it, and that he loved Arthur more than anything in the world. And although they’ve never been great at communication, this ends up being one of those rare instances where Arthur seems to get the idea.
Later, they will have to begin to wonder how Merlin escaped death, and begin to discuss in earnesty their feelings for each other. But for now, they are content to hold each other through the dark hours of the night, claiming that happiness which they have been denied for so long.