Work Text:
Arthur had always said that a warrior being wounded in battle was nothing more than the natural order of things. It was the cost of knighthood. The price of loyalty. The proof of courage.
From the time he was old enough to hold a wooden sword, he had been taught to wear injury like a badge. Blood on steel, bruises beneath armor. A prince did not flinch. A future king did not falter. And a warrior certainly did not fear wounds, no matter how deep.
He had believed it until—
The ambush came without warning.
It was meant to be a simple patrol. A routine sweep through the woods near Camelot’s borders. Arthur had brought only two knights. And Merlin, of course.
Bandits bursting from the undergrowth, rough hands and crude weapons. There were too many of them. A dozen at least. Perhaps more.
“Form up!” Arthur barked, drawing his sword in a clean arc.
Steel met steel.
Arthur's sword moved almost instinctively, honed by years of relentless training. One bandit lunged. Arthur parried, turned, struck. Another came from behind. Bedivere intercepted him. Across the clearing, Leon was holding off three attackers at once. And somewhere behind them, impossibly, trees seemed to help, branches snapping at just the right moment, falling at just the right angle to knock armed men sprawling into the dirt.
The battle turned. Slowly, but surely. The bandits, disorganized and panicked, began to fall back.
“Push them back!” Arthur ordered.
A final clash. A final surge.
And then—
“Look out!” Someone shouted.
Something slammed into Arthur’s side with brutal force, knocking the breath from his lungs. He hit the ground hard, dirt and leaves exploding around him. Steel flashed overhead. He rolled instinctively, ready to rise—
Then came a wet, sickening sound of steel piercing flesh.
Arthur pushed himself up. He looked up.
Merlin staggered where he stood.
For a heartbeat, Arthur did not understand what he was seeing. Merlin's face drained of all colour. His eyes squeezed shut. His leg buckled beneath him, folding awkwardly as he collapsed.
Arthur’s body moved before thought could catch up.
He was running, scrambling. Almost falling.
Reaching Merlin as he collapsed and caught him before he hit the ground fully, arms locking around him.
“Merlin—”
Merlin was shaking. His skin had gone pale in a way Arthur had never seen before, lips parted as he tried to draw breath that didn’t seem to come properly. His eyes were squeezed shut.
“Where are you hurt?” Arthur demanded, his hands moved almost of their own accord, searching carefully for the injury.“Merlin, answer me.”
A trembling hand pressed against Merlin’s own side.
Arthur gently lifted it away. The sight stole the breath from his lungs.
An arrow. Buried deep in Merlin’s abdomen.
No, no, no—
Even the lightest touch made Merlin cry out. “Don’t—” he gasped, voice cracking. “Don’t… it hurts…”
Arthur’s hand froze in midair, hovering just above the wound, terrified to touch, terrified not to.
Behind them, Leon and Bedivere approached quickly, still stained with blood, breathing hard from the fight.
“Sire,” Bedivere said urgently, “We need to get him back to Gaius. Quickly.”
Arthur could not look at them. His entire world had narrowed to the weight in his arms, to the way Merlin trembled against him.
Every shallow breath. Every tremor. Every tiny sound of pain that escaped clenched teeth seemed to strike somewhere beneath Arthur's ribs. It made no sense. He had watched men suffer before. He had held dying soldiers on countless battlefields.
Why did watching Merlin hurt feel as though someone had reached inside Arthur's chest and closed a fist around his heart?
"The journey's too long." Arthur said at last. "He won't survive the ride."
He swallowed, forcing himself to think as a commander instead of—
"We stabilize him here first."
Leon nodded immediately. "Yes, sire. What can we do?"
Only then did Arthur finally drag his eyes away from Merlin.
He looked at his two knights and discovered that his hands were trembling.
Stop it. You are the Crown Prince of Camelot. You have faced armies.
He drew a slow breath, willing his voice to steady.
"I'll carry him over there." He nodded toward a small clearing where the ground was flatter. "Bedivere, gather firewood. We need a fire."
"At once, sire."
"Leon, find clean water."
"Yes, sire."
The two knights disappeared into the trees.
Arthur slipped one arm beneath Merlin's shoulders and another beneath his knees. Merlin gave a tiny, involuntary cry.
"I'm sorry," Arthur murmured as he lifted him carefully.
Crossing the few yards to the clearing felt impossibly long. Every uneven step threatened to jostle the bolt buried in Merlin's abdomen.
Easy. Easy...
He knelt and lowered Merlin onto the grass.
Merlin's breathing had become ragged.
Arthur looked at the blood soaking through the thin blue tunic and knew he couldn't waste another second.
His fingers found the fabric. With one hard pull, the worn linen split open from collar to hem. Beneath it, the wound was worse than he'd feared. The crossbow bolt had sunk deep into Merlin's side, the wood stained almost black with blood. Crimson spread steadily across pale skin, soaking into the grass beneath him.
Arthur felt his stomach twist.
Merlin blinked awake with a miserable little groan.
"...Hey..." His voice was barely louder than a whisper. "...That was... my favourite... tunic..."
He glanced weakly at the torn cloth. "...Easy for you... to rip it... You're not... the one... who has to mend it..."
Arthur snorted. "Don't complain like a girl, Merlin."
Merlin's mouth twitched.
He was trying to smile. And trying to make Arthur smile.
"This..." Merlin paused, squeezing his eyes shut as another wave of pain passed through him. "...girl..." He drew another shaky breath. "...did save...your...prat arse..."
Arthur laughed. And it broke somewhere. His throat tightened.
"I'm sorry." The words escaped before he could think better of them.
Merlin's eyes opened a fraction.
"...Good heavens..." A faint, breathless smile appeared. "...Did I just hear... you apologise..."
"No." Arthur rolled his eyes automatically. Glancing toward the branches overhead. "That squirrel did."
Merlin made a tiny sound that might have been a laugh.
"Of course it was me." Arthur managed the ghost of a smile. His gaze dropped back to the wound. "I shouldn't have called you a girl."
The confession felt strangely difficult. His voice became almost unbearably gentle. "I've never met a servant braver... or more loyal than you. Idiot."
"...Still..." Merlin hissed sharply as the movement tugged at the bolt. "...still an idiot?"
"Don't move." Arthur's tone became firm again. Drawing his sword. The steel whispered from its scabbard. With one hand he carefully gripped the shaft of the bolt, holding it perfectly still so it would not shift inside the wound.
Merlin sucked in a sharp breath but did not pull away.
"Honestly," Arthur muttered, studying the wood. "Running in front of a crossbow bolt without wearing any armour... You may be the biggest idiot in Camelot."
His words carried all the familiar irritation Merlin knew so well. His hands, however, told another story entirely. Impossibly gentle and steady.
Arthur positioned the blade against the wooden shaft.
"Ready?"
Merlin gave the tiniest nod.
With one swift, precise movement, the sword sliced cleanly through the shaft just above the wound. The severed end fell into the grass.
Arthur immediately steadied the remaining length still lodged inside Merlin, making certain it hadn't shifted even a fraction.
Brushing damp dark hair away from Merlin's fever-warm forehead. Arthur's gaze lingered on the broken shaft still protruding from Merlin's side.
That had been the easy part.
The arrowhead remained. Deep inside.
He knew enough from years of campaigning to understand what came next. Leave it there, and Merlin would bleed or succumb to fever. Remove it carelessly, and he might bleed to death before they ever reached Camelot.
There was no painless choice.
Behind him, dry branches crackled as Bedivere coaxed the fire into life.
A few moments later, the knight returned, a hunting knife held carefully in a folded piece of cloth. Its blade glowed a dull orange after being held in the flames.
"I've heated it, sire." Bedivere held the knife out to him.
Arthur reached for it. The metal radiated heat even through the cloth.
"Do you need my help?"
Before he answered, he felt Merlin shift slightly beside him.
Arthur looked down.
There was hesitation in those blue eyes.
Arthur understood immediately. Merlin hated appearing weak. He complained endlessly, but whenever he was truly hurt, he always tried to hide it. He did not want anyone watching him break.
"Go and help Leon." Arthur ordered.
"Sire?"
"The water will take time to find. Gather any herbs you recognise that ease pain on your way back."
Bedivere glanced once at Merlin, then inclined his head.
"Yes, sire."
Within moments, the knight had disappeared into the trees once more.
Silence settled over the clearing. Only the fire crackled.
Merlin drew a shaky breath. "...Thank you." His voice barely carried.
He swallowed, wincing.
"...Shall we... begin?"
Arthur looked at the glowing blade in his hand. Then at Merlin.
"This is going to hurt."
Merlin closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them again, determination had replaced the fear.
"...I'm ready."
Arthur nodded once. "So am I."
He positioned the knife beside the wound. One hand steadied Merlin's side. The other tightened around the handle.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. Then he pushed the blade in.
Merlin arched beneath his hands. A strangled cry tore from his throat before he bit it back with desperate force.
Arthur felt every muscle in Merlin's body seize. His entire frame shook uncontrollably.
Arthur couldn't stop. Stopping would only prolong it. He forced himself onward, cutting carefully, widening the wound just enough to reach the buried head of the bolt. His jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. He could hear Merlin's teeth grinding together, the harsh, uneven breaths forced through them. Now and then, despite every effort to remain silent, a broken moan escaped him.
Merlin trembled beneath him without pause. His skin had gone almost frighteningly white. Fresh blood welled along the clean incision Arthur made, bright scarlet against pale flesh, before spilling over the edge of the wound and running in thin streams down Merlin's side.
God. There was so much blood.
The red kept coming, too much of it, spilling in steady waves from the widening wound as Arthur worked the blade deeper.
The arrowhead was cruelly barbed. Jagged metal teeth meant to tear on the way in and refuse release on the way out. Blood surged more freely now. The wound widened with every careful adjustment Arthur made, every fraction of movement necessary to free the embedded metal.
This should have been me.
It should have been his body on the ground. His blood in the dirt. His breath breaking apart like this.
He would do anything, anything was better than watching him endure it alone.
Merlin’s head tilted back slightly, lips parted, eyes squeezed shut as the pain finally broke through he had been holding onto.
“Oh god…” Merlin gasped, voice cracking. “It’s... too much… I can’t—”
Arthur felt it like a blade to his own chest.
“Stay with me,” Arthur said immediately, voice tightening. “Merlin—stay with me.”
But Merlin barely seemed to hear him. His body tried to curl away instinctively, every muscle reacting to the invading pressure, to the unbearable intrusion in his side.
“Hurts—” Merlin choked out, smaller now, almost lost beneath the sound of his own breath. “So much… Arthur, please…”
“I know,” Arthur swallowed sharply, and this time his voice broke just slightly. “I know it does.”
He could feel the arrowhead finally loosening. Just a little more.
“Don’t move,” Arthur warned, though his tone was softer than he intended. “Just—hold on.”
Merlin gave a faint, helpless shake of his head, even that instruction was too much to obey.
Arthur adjusted his grip. One final careful pull. The bloodied arrowhead finally came free.
He dropped the metal into the grass and in the same motion, he abandoned the knife, sweeping Merlin up into his arms before his body could react again to the sudden loss of pressure.
Merlin sagged against him immediately, trembling violently, breath coming in uneven, shallow pulls.
Arthur grabbed the bandages beside them, pressing them hard against the wound.
Merlin flinched instantly.
“Don’t—” Merlin tried weakly, twisting as much as he could. “Don’t… Arthur, it hurts…”
“I know,” Arthur said again. “I know.”
His hands pressed firmer.
“You’re bleeding too much,” Arthur said through clenched teeth. “I need to stop it.”
Merlin’s fingers twitched weakly against his sleeve, as if trying to push him away without the strength to do so.
“Please…” Merlin whispered, barely audible now. “Just… stop…”
“No.” Arthur shook his head once. “I can’t let you go,” he said, almost to himself.
Leaning in closer, keeping pressure steady as Merlin continued to tremble beneath him. “You’re not allowed to leave me here, Merlin.”
Merlin let out a broken, exhausted breath.
“…bossy…” he murmured faintly, shivering uncontrollably in his arms. His fingers twitched against Arthur's sleeve. His legs jerked once, twice, in small involuntary spasms.
Warm blood seeped relentlessly through the linen, soaking into his palms until they were slick with it. It felt as though Merlin's life was flowing away beneath his hands.
"Merlin."
No response. Terror settled coldly into his stomach.
Merlin was going limp. His head rolled weakly against Arthur's shoulder, dark hair damp with sweat, his eyelids fluttering as though they had suddenly become too heavy to lift.
"No."
Arthur tightened one arm around him.
"No, Merlin."
The lashes lowered again.
"Merlin." Arthur's voice rose despite himself. "Look at me."
Blue eyes opened a fraction. Unfocused. Glasslike. They drifted somewhere beyond Arthur's face.
"No, no, stay with me."
Arthur had seen battlefields. He had seen men gutted by swords, crushed beneath horses, pierced by arrows. He himself had endured wounds that Gaius had quietly admitted should have killed him. He had watched good men die. Had held them while their breathing stopped.
Yet never. Never had fear seized him like this.
"Talk to me," Arthur said, unable to keep the desperation from his voice. "Complain. Insult me. Call me a spoiled royal prat. Anything."
Merlin's lips moved. "...Mum..." His voice had become impossibly small.
"...Mum..." A faint, confused sound escaped him. "...don't... leave..."
Arthur's heart seemed to stop.
How had Arthur never noticed?
Merlin’s shoulders were narrow beneath Arthur's arm. His frame was slight enough that Arthur could hold nearly all of his weight without effort. The blue linen tunic—what little remained of it after Arthur had torn it open—was nothing more than coarse homespun cloth, patched and mended in several places.
No chainmail. No vambrace. Not even a padded gambeson.
Nothing but thin fabric between his skin and the world.
He wasn't a knight. He wasn't even a soldier.
He was just a village young boy.
And somewhere along the way, Arthur had stopped imagining any world in which Merlin wasn't beside him.
Because Arthur wanted Merlin beside him.
On journeys. On patrols.
At council meetings where Merlin rolled his eyes behind everyone's backs. In the armoury, fumbling with buckles. At dawn, complaining about early mornings. At night, still talking when Arthur wished he'd be quiet.
Arthur wanted all of it. He wanted Merlin there.
Always.
Losing him hurt more than any wound he had ever suffered himself.
"You don't get to leave." he whispered, held him with both arms.
Leon and Bedivere returned at a run.
Leon carried a waterskin and a handful of herbs; Bedivere had gathered several sprigs of willow bark and meadowsweet.
"Sire—"
Arthur did not hear him. His gaze remained fixed on Merlin's face. Merlin cradled against his chest, had gone frighteningly still. Only the faint rise and fall of his chest proved he was still breathing.
"Sire," Leon said again, kneeling beside them. "Let me see him."
The prince’s eyes were wide with something Leon had never seen in him before.
"He won't wake up," Arthur said quietly. "He won't wake up."
"He will, sire," Leon said at once.
Arthur looked up then, almost as if he had forgotten the knights were there.
"Will he?"
Bedivere gently touched Arthur's arm. "My lord, I need to bandage the wound."
Arthur's grip tightened. Then, with visible effort, he loosened one arm just enough to allow Bedivere access to Merlin's side.
Bedivere crushed the herbs between two stones until they became a fragrant green paste, then carefully spread them around the wound. The knight laid fresh linen over the injury and wrapped bandages tightly around Merlin's abdomen.
"He’s burning up." Leon knelt beside Arthur and held out the herbs and waterskin. "We need to get some of this into him. Then we have to return to Camelot immediately."
Arthur nodded and took them. He broke the willow bark into smaller pieces and carefully pushed them between Merlin's lips.
"Come on," he murmured. "Just a little."
Merlin made no response.
Arthur uncorked the waterskin. Supporting Merlin's head with one hand, he tipped a little water into his mouth. But the water simply ran back out, trickling from the corner of Merlin's lips and down his cheek.
"No," Arthur whispered. Without allowing himself time to think about it, he lifted the waterskin and took a mouthful of water himself. The cold liquid rested on his tongue.
He leaned down. Then pressed his mouth to Merlin's.
Carefully, gently, he tipped the water into Merlin's mouth.
After a long moment, he felt a faint swallow.
He drew back.
A tiny amount of water still escaped, but less than before.
He took another mouthful. He bent and touched his lips to Merlin's. Again and again.
Neither knight spoke.
The entire forest seemed to have gone silent.
Arthur had dreamed of this before.
Had wondered, once or twice and then far too often, what it might feel like.
What it would be like to kiss him.
But never like this.
Never with blood on his hands. Never with Merlin unconscious in his arms.
Never with the metallic scent of blood filling the air and terror sitting like a stone in his chest.
There was no warmth in it.
Only the horrible possibility that this might be the first and last time Arthur ever touched him this way.
He gave Merlin one last mouthful of water and pulled back.
A streak of red remained on his own lips. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. His fingers trembled.
Merlin did not stir.
Arthur looked down at him for a long moment. Then he rested his forehead briefly against Merlin's.
"Please," he whispered. "Please don't leave me."
Every instinct Arthur possessed screamed at him to remain exactly where he was, to keep Merlin in his arms until he opened his eyes again.
But they could not stay. Only Gaius could save him now.
"We're leaving," Arthur rose, gathering Merlin into his arms.
Merlin felt frighteningly light. He had always been slender, but now there seemed to be almost nothing left of him but loose limbs and fever-warm skin wrapped in bloodstained bandages.
Arthur carried him to his horse. He mounted first, then carefully drew Merlin up in front of him. One arm remained securely around Merlin's waist, careful to avoid the bandaged wound; the other held the reins. Merlin's head lolled against Arthur's shoulder. Arthur adjusted him instinctively, tucking him closer against his chest.
"There," he murmured. "I've got you."
With a squeeze of his heels, the horse surged forward.
Arthur kept the pace as fast as he dared, but every stride of the horse jarred Merlin's injured body.
"I'm sorry," Arthur whispered every time he felt him flinch.
At first, Merlin still murmured. The words came without sense, drifting in and out of fever.
"...Gaius..."
Arthur tightened his hold. "We're going to him."
Then, so softly Arthur almost thought he'd imagined it—
"Arthur..."
His heart lurched.
"I'm here, Merlin." He leaned closer. "I'm right here."
Merlin didn't answer. Only another fractured breath escaped him before he slipped back into incoherent whispers.
The miles stretched endlessly.
Arthur kept talking.
"You haven't finished cleaning my armour."
"And if this is your way of avoiding polishing my armour, it's remarkably elaborate."
"You'll complain about this later."
His voice cracked. "...I know you will."
Arthur could feel it through Merlin's clothes, little by little...
He was becoming cold.
Merlin's hands, which had rested loosely against Arthur's arm, were pale.
Arthur pulled Merlin closer, wrapping him almost completely inside his own cloak.
"Stay warm." His words were almost pleading now. "Please."
Merlin did not stir.
Arthur's chest hurt as though someone had driven a sword directly through his ribs and left it there.
Arthur knew.
He was losing him.
The walls of Camelot finally appeared on the horizon.
"There!" Leon shouted. "The gates!"
Arthur dug his heels into his horse. "Open the gates!"
The guards barely had time to react before the prince thundered through them.
The horse had scarcely stopped before he was already on the ground.
He lifted Merlin into his arms. Merlin's head fell limply against his shoulder. Arthur pressed his face briefly into Merlin's tangled dark hair. The familiar scent of smoke and herbs was almost entirely hidden beneath blood.
"I forbid you to die." His lips brushed Merlin's hair so light.
Then he ran into the physician's tower.
"Gaius!" His voice echoed through the chamber.
The old physician emerged from the adjoining room.
"Oh..." Gaius breathed. His face drained of colour. "Oh God."
Arthur crossed the room. "Save him."
His voice was raw, almost begging. "Please."
"Lay him here." The physician moved instantly.
Arthur obeyed at once, lowering Merlin onto the bed with infinite care, reluctant to let go until Gaius gently guided his hands away.
Several days later, Merlin finally managed to leave his bed.
It turned out nearly dying came with one unexpected benefit: Prince Arthur had ordered him to take an entire week off.
Of course, actually using the time off was less enjoyable than he had imagined. Every movement tugged painfully at the deep wound in his side. Even breathing too sharply hurt. Gaius had threatened him no fewer than twelve times with permanent bedrest if he continued shambling about like a half-dead scarecrow.
Which, honestly, felt slightly unfair.
Merlin still remembered very little about what had happened after the forest. Most of it came in blurred fragments. Everything afterward had been pieced together from other people’s accounts.
Gaius had informed him that when Arthur brought him back to Camelot, he had very nearly stopped breathing altogether. Apparently he had slept for three full days before finally waking.
I’ve never seen the prince like that, Bedivere had admitted softly.
And Leon had told him something utterly ridiculous that he had spent the last hour trying not to think about. And completely failing.
Which was precisely why he was now limping through the corridors toward Arthur’s chambers.
“This is a terrible idea,” Merlin muttered to himself. His side throbbed with every careful step.
At last he reached Arthur’s door.
Suddenly the entire thing seemed absurd.
What exactly was he supposed to say?
Hello, sire, while I was unconscious and bleeding to death, did you happen to kiss me?
Wonderful plan.
Merlin lifted his hand and knocked.
Then Arthur’s voice came from inside. “Enter.”
Merlin pushed the door open slowly.
Arthur stood near the table. For one brief second, he simply stared. Shock flashed across his face first.
Then relief. Real, bright relief that softened his entire expression before he could hide it.
And then...
“Merlin!” Arthur straightened immediately. “What are you doing out of bed?”
Merlin blinked. “Well, hello to you too.”
Arthur crossed the room in furious strides. “Are you an idiot?”
“Yes,” Merlin said automatically. “You’ve mentioned.”
“I gave you time off to recover, not to wander around the castle like a diseased goat!”
Merlin frowned. “What does that even mean?”
“It means,” Arthur snapped, pointing accusingly at him, “that you were stabbed through the stomach three days ago!”
“Side,” Merlin corrected weakly.
Arthur looked moments away from throttling him.
"Get back to Gaius."
"In a minute."
"No."
"Yes."
"NO."
Merlin smiled. "There he is."
"What?" Arthur frowned.
"The insufferable prat I know."
Arthur rolled his eyes, though Merlin caught the corner of his mouth twitching.
"You nearly died." The words quieted the room.
Merlin lowered his gaze. "...I know."
Arthur looked away first.
"So," Merlin began awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck, "there was... actually... something I wanted to ask."
Arthur folded his arms. "I'm listening."
"I don't really remember much. Everything after I was shot is..." Merlin gestured vaguely. "...rather blurry."
Arthur nodded once. "You lost a great deal of blood."
"Gaius mentioned that. And Bedivere told me you treated my wound."
"I did."
"And that I was unconscious."
"For most of it."
"And apparently I slept for three days."
"You did."
Merlin shifted from one foot to the other.
"And..." Merlin cleared his throat. "And Leon said..."
Arthur's eyebrows rose.
Merlin suddenly found the floor intensely interesting. "He said..."
Another painfully long silence.
Arthur sighed. "Merlin."
"Hm?"
"What are you actually trying to ask me?"
Merlin squeezed his eyes shut
"When I couldn't drink..." he mumbled. "...Leon said..." His ears were burning now.
"...that you.. kissed me." Merlin rushed on before courage failed him. "...On the mouth."
Arthur's cheeks coloured almost imperceptibly. "It wasn't—" Arthur rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "You couldn't swallow the water."
Merlin's stomach sank.
"So..." Arthur continued, "I... transferred it."
Merlin nodded slowly.
"I see."
"It was the only way."
"I know."
Merlin forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "So... You weren't trying to kiss me."
Arthur looked at him at the disappointment Merlin was trying to hide.
He stepped forward until barely any space remained between them.
"If I said..." Arthur hesitated only once. "...that I was... What would you do?"
Everything inside Merlin seemed to stop.
He searched Arthur's face for the familiar smirk that would tell him he'd misunderstood.
But there wasn't one.
Arthur wasn't moving away.
Merlin took one careful step forward.
Now they were so close he could see every golden eyelash.
Merlin lifted a slightly trembling hand. His fingertips brushed Arthur's sleeve.
"You'd better not be teasing me," he whispered.
Arthur answered by shaking his head once. "No."
That single word gave Merlin more courage than he had ever expected.
Very gently, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Arthur's lips.
It lasted only a second as Merlin began to pull away.
But Arthur's hand caught his wrist. The other settled carefully at his waist, instinctively avoiding the healing wound.
Then Arthur drew him back.
The second kiss was deeper, lingering.
When they finally parted, Arthur rested his forehead against Merlin's.
"I thought I'd lost you." The confession came out almost broken. "...I thought... you were slipping away in my arms."
Merlin felt Arthur's hand tighten slightly.
Arthur kissed his forehead.
Then the corner of his temple.
Then, unable to seem to help himself, another brief kiss to his lips.
"I thought I'd lost you," he whispered again.
Merlin smiled softly.
"You didn't."
Arthur laughed once. A quiet, disbelieving sound.
"No," he murmured. "I didn't."
Merlin shifted closer without thinking. The movement pulled sharply at the healing wound made him wincing.
Arthur noticed instantly and pulled back.
"See?" Arthur said, the prince returning to his voice at once. "You're still injured."
"I know."
"And Gaius is going to nagging if he finds out you've been standing here instead of resting."
"Then perhaps..." Merlin grinned. Reaching for Arthur's hand. "...you should walk me back."
Arthur looked down at their joined hands before meeting Merlin's eyes again.
"Just this once," he said with mock reluctance.
Merlin laughed. "Liar."
Arthur smiled and gently intertwined their fingers.
"No," he admitted quietly. "Not just this once."