Work Text:
The heavy oak door to Arthur's chambers closed with a soft thud, sealing them away from the rest of Camelot. In the flickering candlelight, Arthur flexed his fingers and winced, the knuckles split and swollen from the tavern brawl that had erupted when a drunk had insulted Camelot's honor — and more specifically, had made crude remarks about Arthur's manservant.
"You didn't have to defend me," Merlin said quietly, though his eyes were warm as he watched Arthur examine his injuries.
"Yes, I did." Arthur's voice was firm, brooking no argument. "No one speaks of you that way."
Merlin's breath caught at the protectiveness in Arthur's tone, the way it wrapped around him like chainmail. They had danced around this thing between them for months now — stolen glances, touches that lingered too long, words heavy with meaning neither dared voice. But tonight felt different. Tonight, something had shifted.
"Let me see," Merlin said, crossing the room with purpose.
Arthur held out his hands without protest, and Merlin cradled them gently, his long fingers tracing the damage. The knuckles were bloodied, one particularly deep cut still weeping crimson.
"This will hurt if left untended," Merlin murmured, his thumbs ghosting over Arthur's palms.
"Then tend to it." The words were barely above a whisper, but they carried the weight of complete trust.
Merlin's eyes flicked up to meet Arthur's, searching for any hesitation. Finding none, he took a steadying breath. Magic thrummed beneath his skin, eager to heal, to help, to serve the man he loved beyond reason.
"Ic þe bebiede, wundum heale," Merlin breathed, his voice soft as silk in the quiet chamber.
Arthur watched, transfixed, as golden light emanated from Merlin's eyes, flowing down through his hands and into Arthur's damaged flesh. The warmth spread through his knuckles like honey, and he felt the torn skin knitting itself back together, bones settling into proper alignment. But it was more than just physical healing — Arthur could feel Merlin's love in the magic, pure and powerful and utterly devoted.
"Beoþ þu hal, min heorte," Merlin whispered, and though Arthur didn't understand the Old Religion's words, he felt their meaning in his very soul: Be whole, my heart.
The healing magic faded, leaving behind unmarked skin and steady hands. But neither man pulled away. Merlin's fingers remained intertwined with Arthur's, and Arthur turned their joined hands over, marveling at the perfect restoration.
"Every time," Arthur said softly, "every time you do this for me, I wonder how I lived without you."
Merlin's eyes shimmered. "You never have to."
The declaration hung between them, heavy with promise. Arthur lifted one hand to cup Merlin's face, thumb tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone.
"Stay," Arthur said, the single word carrying years of longing. "Stay the night. Stay with me."
Merlin leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed. When he opened them again, they blazed with golden fire — not magic this time, but something far more powerful.
"Yes," Merlin breathed. "Always yes, Arthur. Always."
Arthur's smile was radiant as he drew Merlin closer, their foreheads touching in the candlelit sanctuary of his chambers. Outside, Camelot slept on, unaware that its prince and his sorcerer had finally stopped running from their destiny — not the one written in prophecy, but the one written in their hearts.
The candles burned low as they held each other, whispering words of love and devotion that had been too long unspoken. And for the first time in either of their lives, they felt truly, completely whole.
In Merlin's arms, Arthur discovered that some magic didn't require spells or ancient words. Sometimes it was as simple as two hearts finally admitting what they'd always known — that they belonged together, in this life and whatever lay beyond.
The healing was complete.