Merlin has learned to love Arthur’s armour the way he loves the man safely hidden in its carapace. How can he not, when it is all that lies between a fatal stroke and a broken body?
And so he spends sleepless nights hunched over, murmuring desperate spells over the silver plates. The squires tell him of the best ways to hammer out each dent. The perfect oil to brush over the grey steel. All he must do to prepare for the eve of battle.
What they don’t tell him is the Sisyphean amount of mental effort it takes. Now, as Merlin tightens the well-oiled straps, his fingers tremble at the reminder of Arthur’s fragile mortality. He fumbles when he secures the couter to the breastplate, as he feels how his heartbeat hammers in time with Arthur’s just a few inches below. He prays that today will not be the last time it does.
The serf fights a lonely war in his mind before his sovereign steps into battle, and it is just as intense. Merlin must brace himself to let go. To come to terms with the fact that there are still battles Arthur must fight alone, despite all that Merlin has done for him. But it is hard to remember that, when the curve of his palm slides into place so snugly, at where Arthur has it pressed into the swell of the breastplate.
“Don’t be such a fish wife,” Arthur flashes Merlin a glint of a smile, then runs a thumb comfortingly over his knuckles. Merlin never wants it to end. “I’ll be fine. God, I’ll never go into battle again if it means I’ll have to deal with this much of your worrying.”
Merlin stays silent. That is a vow that can never be kept, as Arthur is not his to keep. The moment Arthur steps out of the tent, into the vast terrain, Merlin knows he will lose him. He will have to give him back to the kingdom they have both sworn their lives to, hand him over to the roar of the thousands of soldiers and watch him disappear behind hardened eyes, swallowed up by the mantle of kingship.
But for now, Camelot holds its breath, the lull before the storm. Merlin steals a few more moments; he drinks in the curve of Arthur’s paldron, the way it curls tight over the shoulder blades and palms the smooth slope of the vambraces.
It’s not enough, it’s never enough, but it’s what he’ll have to hold on to for now.
prompt: prepare @merthurmicrofic
words: 426
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