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Arthur drifts, wakefulness ebbing over him waves. His body is anchored to the ground. He tries to crack open his eyelids, but they remain firmly shut. Like they're sewn together. Maybe they are? Last thing he remembers…
He'd been riding away from Camelot to… The rest of the memory slips away like a receding tide.
What had happened?
He has to stand. He has to return… somewhere. No, there's somebody he has to find. Or at least, he thinks so. The details refuse to surface. He just needs to remember… Pain spike behind his eyes, like hundreds of tiny daggers stabbing directly into his brain. Oh gods… maybe his eyes are sewn shut. He'd had a nightmare about that last week and Merlin had rolled his eyes and called him—
Merlin.
Merlin had been out here with him. Right?
There's no time to waste. Arthur has to move… but a wave of tiredness rolls over him. It weighs down his limbs, submerging his thoughts. Just a quick nap. And then he'll… get…
Something sharp stabs him in the hand. He jolts back awake. Another stab quickly follows, forceful and insistent.
"Go away," he grumbles hoarsely, throat dry like he's back in the Fisher Kingdom's dead lands. Maybe he is. It's not like he can remember.
When he's stabbed for a third time, a terribly irritating shriek accompanies it. That is it.
"Oh, for the love of—" Arthur growls. His eyes snap open.
Good news, they are in fact not sewn shut. Bad news, the sunlight is so damn bright. He winces against the assault, shutting his eyes again. The mysterious force stabs his hand again.
It's easier to open his eyes the second time around. Arthur squints, trying to make out what's attacking him. A… bird? With dark gray wings and a marbled russet and white chest. Like one of the sparrowhawks that the falconer keeps. Did he take one of them out hunting today?
Their eyes meet. Arthur swallows, dry and painful. He's never seen a hawk with such striking gold eyes.
The hawk shrieks. He flaps his wings, the tips of his feathers swatting at Arthur's face. There's a sense of urgency in it. For some reason, Arthur thinks the hawk is trying to tell him to move.
This is ridiculous. He's the Crown Prince of Camelot (for how much longer? his father hasn't left his bed in weeks—), he is not taking orders from a bird.
The hawk's uncanny eyes glint, preparing for another punishing peck.
"Don't you dare," Arthur snaps, yanking his hand out of reach. The motion jolts every muscle in his body and a fresh wave of pain rolls over him. His head drops back down to the ground, chest rising in slow, deep breaths.
At least there's no one around to have seen him talking to an animal.
The hawk squawks like he's sighing. A moment later, sharp talons rest against the skin of his arm. Arthur can't help tensing, prepared for another attack, but the hawk doesn't dig his talons in. They prick along his skin, a trail leading up his forearm and settling on his lower back. His feet knead into him.
Truly an irritating bird.
Arthur gathers his strength and stands. Not because the bird told him to, but because he has to. He wobbles, hand going to the hilt of his sword—good, he still has it—before taking a step forward. It feels like he'd been used as a seige machine's projectile. In this state, he can't have moved far. Merlin had to be around here somewhere. That fool came out with him to—to—His head throbs, the memory still refusing to surface.
The hawk dips in front of his face. The sunlight glints off of his feathers as he flies through the trees. It disappears. Good riddance, Arthur snorts with a glance upward to determine the sun's position. He turns to his right. He'll check East first. Before he even takes a step, the hawk cuts in front of him, batting at his face with his wings.
"Stop that, you foul beast!" Arthur exclaims. He raises an arm to shield his face—but the hawk isn't hurting him. It flies off again to the West.
It wants Arthr to follow.
Arthur is pretty sure he's got a concussion. He's seen other men act the same after a blow to the head. Otherwise why else would he be conversing with a hawk?
Well, if the hawk wants Arthur to follow, what else could possibly go wrong today?
He loses track of how far, how long he walks, but the irritating bird harries him onward relentlessly. It's smart enough to keep out of Arthur's reach. If he ever gets his hands on that bird—
The bubbling babble of a stream distracts him from finishing the threat. Arthur moves faster, half delirious with the consuming, aching thirst burning his throat. He kneels down, falls down, so fast his knees crack against the rocks. It doesn't stop him from scooping up the water with his hands and drinking.
The hawk chitters, almost like laughter, as the water trickles down Arthur's chin and hauberk.
Arthur rolls his eyes. "You try drinking water gracefully from a stream." The hawk ruffles his feathers before hopping down the rocks. He bends over, beak dipping gracefully into the stream. A gloating eye peers at Arthur. See? It's not that hard.
He is actively being disrespected by a bird. Is this what his life has come to? Well, he'll not stand for it.
Arthur smacks his palm against the water. It sprays in an arc, showering the hawk. The bird shrieks and flaps its wings at Arthur, flinging the water droplets back at him.
"Don't you even—" Arthur holds up a hand to shield himself. It throws him off-balance. He sways for a moment, trying to regain his center, then falls. His back smacks the ground and he—
He remembers. Camelot had received multiple reports of missing kids. Desperate for a break from court, Arthur dragged Merlin to investigate with him. They found a cave in the woods where the kids had last been seen. Inhabited, by a rather surly sorceress. She had thrown him into the wall with magic. Then he—then… they—then…
The memory cuts out there. His fists clench in frustration. There was something else, something important that he couldn't remember.
The hawk peers over his face, talons snagging on the links of his hauberk.
"'m fine," Arthur mumbles. He's not really and he's sure the hawk doesn't believe him. "Let's keep moving. You know where Merlin is?"
He has to find Merlin first. It's dangerous with the sorceress still around, even if Merlin has—even if Merlin can take care of himself, Arthur couldn't bear to lose him.
Arthur drags a hand over his face with a heavy sigh. If he can't even reckon with it, how does Merlin?
The hawk takes flight as Arthur stands again. It leads him more to the Northwest now. There's a familiarity that nags at the back of Arthur's mind. He knows this pattern of trees for some reason.
Why does he know these trees? His head aches, but he pushes past the spikes of pain. The answer is obviously. This is the way towards Camelot.
Arthur stops. "Stupid bird!" It lead him home, not towards Merlin. This is what he gets for trusting a featherbrain.
As he turns around, anger creeping like ivy up the back of his neck, his foot catches on a root. The ground rushes up to meet him. Pain bursts across his body, hot like the unforgiving summer sun. The hawk's shrieks ring in his ears, crying an alarm. Or berating him, for going the wrong way?
Going towards Merlin could never be the wrong way.
The hawk's beak taps insistently at the back of Arthur's head. It suddenly stops, and the pressure on his back vanishes.
There's not even of moment for Arthur to celebrate the peace—A war cry echoes throughout the woods.
So that's what the hawk had been warning him about. Bandits.
Arthur shoots to his feet, ignoring the piercing jolts of pain, and draws his sword. It's a small group of them, only six. Any other day, he could take them with one hand tied around his back.
The concussion severely worsens his odds. But he is a warrior, a Knight of Camelot. He will not fall here.
A fight is a mix of strategic thought and mindless instinct. Arthur's body knows what to do, even if his head struggles to piece together his thoughts. He falls back easily on years of relentless training.
A bandit slips past his guard. Before the sword can strike him, the hawk dives from the sky, attacking the bandit's helm with his talons. Arthur takes advantage of the distraction. With that, there's only two bandits left. Exhaustion weighs him down like he's being pulled away by a riptide.
The hawk darts through the air towards the bandit on the left; the bandit's sword swings up to meet it. Blood splatters through the air.
The hawk drops to the ground.
He doesn't move.
Memory surges back to Arthur, stealing his breath.
The sorceress pointed at him. "You will die a beast's death, Arthur Pendragon!" Green light arced in the air. Before it could strike him, Merlin leapt between them and took the blow. He fell to the ground.
No, he doesn't have time to remember.
Arthur cuts down the bandits, rage lending him its ferocity. He drops his sword, rushing over to the hawk's side.
He gives a weak squawk as Arthur lifts him. There's so much blood. What should Arthur do? What can he do? Merlin's the physician; all Arthur knows how to do is kill and kill and—
"Please," Arthur croaks out, voice wavering. "I can't lose you too, Merlin."
Green light, the same the sorceress wielded, bursts from the hawk's form. It shimmers and when it fades, Merlin, human again, is cradled in Arthur's arms.
"You prat," Merlin says hoarsely. "When did you know?"
"From the very beginning," Arthur lies. Or maybe it's not a lie? He suspected, deep down. He had an awareness of familiarity that had stayed just out of a reach until his memory fully returned.
"Liar." Merlin laughs, which turns to a deep cough. He clutches at his ribs, blood staining his fingers red. "Ow, ow, damn it, don't make me laugh."
"Are you…" Arthur can't finish it. Fatally injured? Dying? Leaving me?
"I'll be fine," Merlin replies. "It was a bad wound for a sparrowhawk, but I'm human again."
"Good." Arthur pulls Merlin to his feet and they lean on each other for support. "Don't think you'd get any days off just because you were a little dead."
Merlin sniffs. "I wouldn't dare, sire."
The rest of the walk back to Camelot is quiet, not having the energy to spare for any idle chatter. Three figures ride out to meet them. Arthur prepares for a fight, until he recognizes Lancelot, Gwaine, and Elyan. When Lancelot goes to pull Merlin into his arms, Arthur doesn't—can't—let go.
"Sire?" Lancelot asks, stupid beautiful brown eyes crinkled in confusion.
"C'mon, you both need to be seen by Gaius," Elyan interjects, placing a hand on Arthur's shoulder.
Right, yes. Gaius. Merlin is hurt.
Arthur reluctantly releases Merlin. Lancelot rides away, supporting Merlin. Something dark and ugly seizes his heart. It should be him.
He shakes his head. That was a weird thought. This concussion must be affecting him more than he realized.
There's no way he'd been feeling possessive over Merlin.