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"Shh, shh, easy now, don't fret so much, you'll push your blanket off again."
That's…not Arthur's voice.
"No," he hears the voice chuckle, "I'm not Arthur. He'll be back in just a moment, he's gone to bother Gaius."
Gaius? Why Gaius? Is someone hurt?
"No, you silly boy, no one's hurt—no one except you. And you're fine, might I add, so try and take a few deep breaths with me, hm?"
If the voice could stop reaching into his head to pluck his thoughts out, that would be great.
"I appreciate that you think me capable of that, but you're speaking out loud, Merlin. Though the fact that you don't realize that is a little bit concerning."
There's a warm hand on his face. A warm hand, warm and rough and callused and now it's scratching gently at his scalp. His eyes are heavy, his arms and legs even more so, but there's this ache in his chest and throat that he doesn't know what to do with.
"Come on, Merlin, take a breath," the voice coaxes again, somehow even more tender, "copy me, alright? In…and out…"
His hand is lifted by one of the warm ones, pressed against something else warm and strong—chest, his mind supplies after a moment's confusion—and he manages to take one, gasping breath.
"Good, Merlin, good…in…and out…"
The chest has a heart inside. He can feel it beating against his palm. There's something strangely intimate about it, but he feels like he knows this heart, he's felt it before. It's not Arthur's, Arthur's heart has this nasty endearing habit of trying to beat inside his chest instead of Arthur's, but he knows this heart beat too. He's felt it before. In the cold…
"You're as skinny as a twig, Merlin," the voice says, still speaking softly, gently, "we need to keep you warm."
Warm, yes, warm is good. He would like to be warm. The hand slides off his face, tugging something up around him—oh, that's a blanket. He's being covered with a blanket. That's quite nice. That should help keep him warm. Then something else really warm shifts closer to him too and he nearly weeps with the relief of it—wait, that means he's cold.
He's cold.
Oh, gods, he's so cold.
"Shh, shh, easy, poor boy, come—come, let me—oh, Merlin…" The voice is closer now, but barely audible over the sudden clattering of his teeth. "Oh, you poor thing…"
"Is he awake?"
Arthur, that's Arthur. There's another warm thing on the other side of the bed and a muffled curse as something else wonderfully warm nestles up against him.
"Oh, sweetheart," Arthur murmurs, "you've given all of us quite a fright, haven't you?"
"A-Arthur—"
"Shh, shh, don't try and speak yet. You're still so cold, you idiot—how did you manage to get colder? Leon, are there—"
"Lancelot's on his way. He and Gwaine have found all the blankets the spare rooms have tucked away."
"You hear that, Merlin?" Warm breath puffs over his shoulder and he thinks he sobs at the feeling. "You're going to be all warmed up and safe and then you won't have to cry anymore."
He's crying?
The warm hand from before—Leon's hand, it's Leon, Leon's here, Leon's with him, it was Leon talking to him, trying to keep him calm, keep him warm—Leon's hand tucks itself gently behind his head and he's lifted onto something warm and strong and then there's a pair of lips pressed to his forehead and more warm breath blowing over his nose and cheeks. His face feels wet.
Oh, he's crying.
Of course, once he realizes that, the pain in his chest and throat start to make a little more sense. Leon's hand is still holding his to his chest, breaths as steady as ever, and Arthur's hand slips down to rest warmsolidsaferealcomfortArthurprotect on his heaving stomach, rubbing soothing circles.
"Shh, shh, sweetheart," Arthur whispers, breath ghosting over his brow, "you're safe. We'll get you warmed up. Don't fret, don't fret."
"Just keep breathing, alright?" Leon's thumb strokes gently over his knuckles. "You're doing so well. Just copy me."
Somehow, through some feat he has no idea of, he manages to breathe. Every breath he draws is accompanied by murmured praise and encouragement, every sob choked out of his throat has a soft hand easing the strain from sore muscles. Leon's fingers scratch at his scalp, smooth his hair back from his forehead. Arthur's hand makes gentle sweeps along his stomach and ribs, holding him firmly against his side.
"Alright, we've found them," comes a new voice, Lancelot, "I think we've got more than enough blankets to keep the entire stable warm.
"Set up a line of pillows down here—" Gwaine, sounding far more serious than he normally does— "Lancelot, help me get these up."
"Shh, easy," Leon hushes when he whines in confusion at being jostled, "nothing's taking you away from us. You just need to rest, alright? We're here to help you, Merlin, you're safe now, it's alright."
"Tell me you at least managed to get him out of those wet clothes."
"We did," Arthur says, worry still lacing every word, "but I'm not sure how much good it did."
"It did," Leon says, firm and steady as ever, "it made it so there wasn't further risk of his temperature dropping. We've done everything right, sire, now all we have to do is keep taking care of him."
He hears Gwaine chuckle—now that sounds familiar— "That won't be a hardship, now will it?"
He sniffles. Blinks—or tries to blink. All he can see is red for a few moments before he has to shut his eyes again.
"The candle—"
"Yes, I have it."
"Merlin?" Arthur's hand, cupping his face. "Merlin, open your eyes, sweetheart, the light's gone, it's alright."
He blinks, blinks, blinks again. There's still red muddling up his vision, but he manages to look up and see Arthur. Worry furrows his brow, his eyes darting around Merlin's face as though looking for something, but then their eyes meet and his face softens.
"Hello, sweetheart," he whispers, "you gave us quite a scare."
"S-sorry."
"Don't apologize, it's alright." He leans forward to rub the tips of their noses together. "Wouldn't be you if you weren't being ridiculous."
He thinks he might be offended by that, somewhere, some small part of him that doesn't know this cold.
"What do you remember?"
At Leon's voice, he turns. He looks up at the man, at his hand still pressed against Leon's chest, at the way Leon's fingers curl protectively around his, at the scratch on the back of his hand.
"The storm," he breathes, "the storm, it—it came so fast, I didn't—I didn't mean to—"
"We know, Merlin," Arthur says, "shh, it's alright. But you remember the storm, yes?"
He nods. He remembers the way the sky suddenly went black as night, thunder rolling in the distance like the rumbling stomach of some great, vast beast. He remembers the stinging rain pelting him as he ran through the trees, flimsy jacket held pitifully over his head as though it could shield him even the slightest bit. He remembers the roots, sprawling over the ground. He remembers the fall.
He doesn't remember anything else.
"We went looking for you when you didn't come back," Lancelot says, his face appearing over Leon's shoulder, "we found you hiding under a tree."
"Silly boy," Arthur whispers, only for his ears, "you were so cold…"
Yes. Yes, he remembers the cold.
"But you're safe now," Leon says, pulling him back, "you're safe and you'll be as warm as you need, alright? Arthur went and got some of Gaius's famous toddy for you, that always does the trick."
"Shh," Gwaine soothes when he goes to fret for it, "it'll be there when you're ready for it. There's a fire going too, that'll keep it nice and warm. You just rest for a moment, yeah? Think we all need a little bit of a rest after that fright."
Warm…yes, he wants—he wants to be warm.
"You can be warm, sweetheart," Arthur whispers, pressing a kiss to his temple, "just close your eyes and rest, alright? You can drink the toddy when you wake up. We'll stay right here with you."
"You w-will?"
"Of course, Merlin."
"We're not going anywhere."
"We've got you."
"Rest, don't worry about anything else."
There's a hand on his ankle, giving it a reassuring squeeze. There's a hand holding his, cradling it to blow warm breath over his fingers. There's a hand in his hair, carding gently through the still-damp strands. There's a body pressed against his, warming him from tip to toe.
He closes his eyes and dreams of candles flickering gently in their own breeze.