Welcome to merthur microfic, a community dedicated to flash fiction!
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NOTE: Fanworks are not required to include romantic or sexual content, which means you can (and are encouraged to) explore their platonic dynamic as well – however, we ask that Merlin and Arthur are not depicted in non-merthur ships (including poly ships, as these are their own ship) unless merthur is implied as being, or wanting to be, end game.
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For @merthurmicrofic EXILE + @merlinbingo Merlin & Mordred
"Da!"
"Yes Mordred, I'm in here," Merlin said as he ground the herbs with his mortar and pestle.
"We have a visitor," said his son with a cheerful lilt to his voice.
"Can you take them to head to the healer's hut kiddo, and I'll be there in a minute," he replied as he finished up his latest batch of yarrow salve.
"I'm not injured, I've come for you," said a familiar voice and Merlin whipped his head around to see the familiar and welcome face of Lancelot.
"Lancelot! How did you?! Gods never mind get over here!" he yelled placing down the salve and hurrying over to embrace his friend, when he suddenly stopped in his tracks when he saw what Lancelot was wearing.
Armour and a red cloak.
A Camelot cloak.
"Mordred come here now," he stated firmly and Mordred hurried over beside him.
"Did you bring them here? Did you come to hurt us, because I can assure you I will not allow harm to come to these people nor my son."
"Merlin no, I would never hurt you or cause you harm, we've come to bring you home. They thought I'd be best to come see you first since we left on good terms," said the knight.
"Home? You mean Camelot, that's not- I do not have a home. How'd you end up a knight I thought you were banished?"
"Arthur came and found me, and a few others on the journey, you know I think you'd like them a lot. They're here with me just outside the camp, nobody is hurting anyone we just want to bring you home, well I suppose both of you, since… what's his name? He's yours?"
"Mordred! My name is Mordred!" he said excitedly.
"Yes Mordred is my adoptive son," he said warmly, glancing down at the kid that he'd grown to love so dearly.
"Don't you see Da! You can go home now! I knew the Once and Future King would come around eventually, he did save us after all," said Mordred tugging on his hand lightly.
"I don't understand though how did-"
"Uther is dead," Lancelot interrupted.
"What?"
"It's a long story but he was slain by a wraith and now Arthur is king, you have to see it Merlin nothing is the same. He's been looking for you for months, he misses you terribly, but when he heard back from the Camelot Druids telling them that Emrys was living in deep in the Northumbria woods, he sent us," explained the knight gently.
"Does he… Does he really want me back? How does he expect, with the magic ban?" Merlin said testing the waters.
"Lifted, it's been hard they argued apparently but it was one of the first things he did, he said he did it because he had learned that magic had saved him so many times, please will you just come home now? He can explain it all much better then I. The knights and I can escort you both home safely," said Lancelot, and Merlin sighed, his nerves fluttering in his chest.
Yet… All he really wanted was to go home and now that he had the chance…
He looked at his son, leaning down and asking, "Mordred do you-"
"Yes, Da, you gave up everything for me, I want you to go home," he said warmly and Merlin knelt down placing a gentle kiss on his forehead.
"Alright kiddo go pack your things, I guess this exile is finally over…"
Merlin can feel destiny breathing down his neck, down all their necks. His skin is screaming with it—every muscle, tendon and fingernail tense. Everything is going wrong, and he is utterly powerless to stop it.
Arthur is quiet for a long moment, beside him, before he answers Mordred. "I wish I knew."
He turns from the cell.
Merlin follows.
He has to do something. He has to try and fix this, before—
But it's like trying to talk underwater, asking Arthur to listen. He can't hear Merlin, because for all this time he's been kept in the dark, and now Merlin's standing in front of him, choking to death on the panic, the dread that's settling like silt in his veins and slowly filling his lungs.
"Arthur—"
"It's my decision. Mine alone, Merlin." Arthur is troubled too, he can tell. Exhausted. Grieving, blind-sided by Mordred's betrayal. But he doesn't know. He doesn't know what Merlin knows, that this is the beginning of the end: that if Kara is executed, and Mordred turns against Arthur, his fate—their fate, together—is all but decided.
Blood pounds in his ears, hot and wild with fright. "Please."
"What would you have me do?" Arthur demands, whirling to face him, voice sharp with frustration, desperation. "I have to uphold the laws of Camelot!"
Merlin swallows. It's all rising up in him, a decade-long bile of secrets and sacrifices, and hope, and horror—
"Exile her. Exile them both."
"Merlin, I can't just—"
Something in Merlin snaps, or breaks loose, because he just—he can't fucking do this. He can't watch Arthur die. He can't. "Arthur. There's more, alright, there's so much more to this than you know. I can—I'll tell you about it. I'll tell you everything—"
Arthur's gaze locks on him, eyes wide, and he looks—frightened, or lost. Merlin is shaking.
"Please," he repeats, choking on it; realises suddenly he's crying. "Please, Arthur."
"Alright." It's a murmur, low in the dwindling space between them, as Arthur steps away from the window, towards him, hand hesitant but reaching. "Alright, tell me."
for @merthurmicrofic | prompt : « exile » | ~1200 words
Merlin had imagined this scenario countless times before, but never like this. He had always thought that it would be him who would end up getting exiled – or, at the very least, Gwaine – but not Arthur. Never Arthur.
It was all one, big misunderstanding, and Merlin’s skin itched with the need to right it. And oh, how it pained him that he could not do so. He longed to, yes, but he was deathly afraid that any action he might take would only aggravate the situation at hand. And besides, he had never meant for Arthur to find out this way.
Arthur knelt before his father, head lowered, hands clasped, as if in prayer to some merciless god. Uther towered over him, right hand clenching the pommel of his sword, face contorted with barely concealed anger. “Gaius told me that the beast could only be killed with magic,” Uther spat. “And yet here you kneel before me, claiming to have slain it.”
“Father, please,” Arthur stammered. “I swear, we killed it with our swords–”
“Silence!” Merlin flinched as the king’s voice echoed across the almost empty throne room. It would have been an intimate tableau – father and son, attended only by the crown’s most loyal manservant – were it not for Uther’s drawn sword, and the rope tight around Merlin’s neck. Uther was not blind, and he had long since noticed his son’s affection for his manservant. He had brought Merlin along now to ensure Arthur’s cooperation with whatever sick judgement he pronounced. As far as Uther – and, for that matter, Arthur, too – was aware, one sharp tug could end Merlin’s life.
“I have noticed a pattern with you,” Uther continued. “Every time Gaius tells me a foe can only be defeated with sorcery, you seem to vanquish it with ease. To think all this time, my very own son was hiding magic from me.” He spat out the words with such hatred that Arthur visibly recoiled.
“Father, I have told you–”
“Do not speak to me.”
It was no use. Uther was beyond reason.
“To think all I have given up for you,” Uther hissed. “And this is how you repay me. You are no son of mine.”
Arthur sank even further into the floor, body shuddering as he tried to hold back his tears. Uther stepped forwards, slowly, deliberately, closing the short distance that separated him from Arthur. He pointed his sword towards Arthur’s neck, and for one horrible moment, Merlin thought he’d misjudged the king’s intentions. He breathed a sigh of relief when he realised Uther showed no sign of making good on his threat, as for all his criticism of Arthur’s mercy and compassion, Uther Pendragon could not find it in himself to kill his son.
“I am exiling you.” Uther’s whispered words cut through the room. “If you are ever seen in Camelot again, you are to be killed on sight. Do you understand?”
Slowly, painfully, Arthur nodded his head.
“And as for your dear friend Merlin” – Uther’s voice dripped with false sweetness as his free hand tightened its grip on the rope wrapped around Merlin’s neck – “I think I shall promote him to personal manservant to the king. I have asked the Royal Blacksmith to make me something a little stronger than this rope to restrain him, lest he get any ideas about following you into that thick head of his.”
Arthur lifted his head, eyes wide. “No, Father, I can’t let you hurt Merlin–”
Uther pressed the sword even closer to Arthur’s neck. If it weren’t for Merlin’s protective wards around Arthur, it certainly would have drawn blood. Merlin sighed to himself. He had let this go on long enough. If he let it go on any further, any hopes of Arthur becoming the Once and Future King would be dashed. He didn’t care one jot about that dragon’s stupid prophecy, but he did care very much for Arthur. He couldn’t let the man he loved be treated like this, not by his own father of all people.
“Put the sword down,” Merlin said, voice oddly level despite the anger bubbling inside him. Uther’s hand twitched, ready to pull tight on Merlin’s leash, only to notice that the rope had vanished; in its place, a snake coiled around Merlin’s neck, its tongue flicking lazily. Uther’s sword fell to the ground with a loud clatter. Arthur had not moved from his position on the floor, but his eyes were trained on Merlin.
“What sorcery is this?” Uther demanded, eyes wide with shock.
“It’s not sorcery, it’s magic.” Merlin thrust his arm forward, and Uther was thrown against the wall. His body slid to the floor, head slumped forward, leg twisted at an unnatural angle. Merlin walked forward, slowly, deliberately, glowing eyes locked on Uther.
“I was born with it.”
He held his hand out, and Uther’s discarded sword came flying into it.
“And I use it for Arthur.” His head turned towards the prince. “Only for Arthur.”
Arthur’s eyes flicked between Merlin and his father, struggling to take in what he was seeing. His father had tried to have him exiled. Merlin had put a stop to that, with magic. Merlin had magic. Arthur could not even find it in himself to be surprised. His emotions were so fraught already, he was not sure he was capable of feeling anything more than the sharp desperation of a moment ago. No, that wasn’t quite right – there was something else there, alongside his growing anger towards his father. Ah, yes, his love for Merlin. Burning bright and strong in the very centre of his heart.
Arthur stood up, almost in a daze. His feet made their way towards Merlin, who was standing before Uther, seemingly waiting for the prince to join him. Arthur felt the sudden weight of Excalibur in his hand, and he was not sure where the sword had come from.
“What shall we do with him?” Merlin whispered to him, breath hot in his ear.
Arthur tilted his head to regard his father properly. Uther looked half-broken already; clearly, the only thing worse than his son courting a servant (and a male one at that!) was finding out his son was in fact courting a sorcerer. Arthur’s hand reached forward, and he felt himself point his sword at Uther’s throat.
“To think all I have done for you.” Arthur’s words came out cold and sterile. “All the people I have killed for you, all the parts of myself I repressed to try to please you, and this – this – is how you repay me. You are no father of mine.” Arthur withdrew Excalibur, a lone tear sliding down his cheek. “I hereby exile you from this kingdom, Uther Pendragon. If you are ever seen within the borders of Camelot again, you are to be killed on sight. Do you understand?” Arthur’s voice shook, but his resolve was firm. He felt the warmth of Merlin beside him, supporting him. They certainly needed to have a serious conversation, but that was not a matter for the present.
Merlin’s eyes locked with Uther’s for one last time. “The King is dead,” he said, and the colour drained from Uther’s face as the reality of the betrayal sunk in.
His head was pounding. He could feel lines of blood running down to his eyes. Breathing felt impossible. Every movement threatens to collapse him.
He was being pulled through a castle. Golden shackles and chains made sure he would behave.
Not that he could do anything with the way his body ached.
Everything was a blur. A true strategist would take this moment to learn the layouts. Look for an opportunity for later at least.
But Arthur was too broken to be a prince now.
They finally arrived at a wide hall. Arthur finally felt stable enough to make out where he was. Handwoven rugs with dense floral patterns and deep jewel tones covered the floors.
Floor to ceiling windows on both sides let the light flow in, a gentle breeze had the navy-blue curtains gently moving.
“Your highness.”
The guards bowed before they shoved Arthur to his knees. “Kneel before your prince, lord Emrys of Elador.”
Emrys was dressed in navy blues head to toe. Gold jewelry adorned his sharp features well. On his dark curly hair sat a golden chain circlet that shone under the light coming from the windows. Multiple rings sat on his long fingers. Arthur swore the dust of freckles on Emrys’s temples were also shining in gold. His beauty sharp enough to wound.
The prince, however, didn’t seem to acknowledge them. Or simply care enough. He was lounging on his throne with one knee resting over the other. One hand under his jaw as the other had a floating grimoire. The book shone and had symbols floating above its pages. Arthur assumed they were the symbols of the Old religion.
The one thing his father warned him the most about. And the thing that destroyed his kingdom and left him in shackles.
“Your highness, king Mordred has sent us his greatest slave and prisoner as a token of gratitude for your help in the war. Kneeling in front of you is the exiled Prince of Camelot, Arthur Pendragon.
“He was never a prince.” Figure on the throne didn’t look up from the grimoire. “Born of magic only to betray it. This slave is a disgrace to my land of magic.” The snap of the closing grimoire had Arthur startled and then, he was met with an intense gaze of blue.
“Your highness, we understand your resentment. However, the regent requested to keep the prize as a form of peace and alliance between the new ruler of Camelot and Eldor.
“Uncle Gaius is too soft.” The prince tilted his head; a dangerous smirk appeared on his lips. “king Mordred is wise enough not to backstab the warlock of magic.”
A dagger flew right to Arthur’s face but stood still inches away from him. He forced everything in him to not startle. preserving his last scraps of dignity and glaring up at Emrys.
“you can’t even use your weapon properly. Without your magic, even the sharpest swords won’t save you.” Arthur took satisfaction in Emrys’s smirk disappearing. Emrys waved his hand and the chains snapped apart. Arthur was surprised to find the dagger fly into his freed hands. He still had the shackles on, but this was enough freedom for him to slit Emrys’s throat open.
“Then let’s watch your arrogance shatter, shall we?"
My little addition to the @merthurmicrofic for the prompt "stars" :) 1,586 words. Can be read platonic or romantic.
Arthur knows how to use the stars to navigate. It was taught to him at a young age; originally meant for boat navigation, his teacher explained that he could use them even in the depths of the forest. All he had to do was find an open spot in the canopy. He knows how to use them to make his way back home.
So it wasn't hard to believe the travelling minstrel who told him that some destinies were written in the stars. It had been on his eighth birthday, memorable because his father had bothered to attempt a celebration - hence the minstrel. Arthur hadn't understood what "written in the stars" meant at the time; most of the story had gone over his head. The phrase, though, stuck with him. If stars could be read for guidance on a dark night then it would make sense they could be read in other ways. He believed that if he stared at them enough, learned to understand them properly, perhaps he could gain some insight into his own destiny. Learn what he's meant to do.
Staring at the stars became a guilty habit, something he turns to when his father is disappointed in him (often) or when he feels like a failure (even more often). Though he grew out of the childish belief in destiny, there is still a part of him that wants the comfort of knowing his purpose. Nearly every clear night, he can be caught leaning out some window or over a balustrade, staring at the sky, hoping the stars will do more than just shine for once.
Secretly he wishes they could speak to him, tell him how he's meant to carry the weight of the crown, but they never do, preferring to be silent supervisors of fate.
Arthur had never met anyone who stared at the night sky as often as he did until Merlin came. Sometime around his first week as the worst manservant Arthur had ever known, they bumped into each other on a late night quest to find clear skies and sparkling lights. They don't speak of it, but Arthur takes note.
He notices when Merlin sits at the window after dinner, polishing a sword or boot with slow, smooth strokes, face turned toward the night sky.
He notices that Merlin also takes nightly strolls along the walls, hands in his pockets, ridiculous neckerchief flapping in the breeze, eyes focused up into the sky.
He notices when they ride home from some quest or other, and Merlin lets the reins go slack, trusting the horse to stay with Arthur, and tosses his head back to stare into the sky with an abandon that Arthur would call reckless. Once, when their conversation had fallen into an easy sort of silence, Merlin even had the gall to lay back on the horse as they walked along the road.
Eventually, noticing isn't enough. Arthur needs to know if Merlin too feels that the divination of their cryptic celestial gods will tell of his future, or if Merlin just views them as something lovely without any deeper meaning. Merlin is often taken with lovely things: a bouquet of flowers, a pretty dish in the market, a particularly ornate goblet. Merlin takes in the world around him with a depth of emotion Arthur had never seen. Merlin seems to enjoy being in a state of awe. Merlin once started crying while staring at a painting gifted to Uther by a visiting dignitary. Arthur stared at the painting long after Merlin left to assist Gaius with gathering herbs, but couldn't figure out what had caused such a strong reaction. The pastoral setting was pretty, deftly painted, and well composed, but nothing more.
Certainly nothing as close to awe inspiring as the stars.
So when Arthur finds Merlin, lying on the stone floor of a turret, staring at the sky and openly weeping, he feels a desperate and sudden tug in his soul to understand. Instead of turning back and finding his own place to look at the sky, he makes his way toward his loyal servant.
(and he is loyal, isn't he? Despite his many faults, Merlin's loyalty remains steadfast. A lighthouse in the storm of Arthur's life.)
Merlin startles when Arthur steps forward.
"Oh.. I..." Merlin begins, scrambling to his feet, "my lord, I thought you went to bed, that I was dismissed for the evening." Then a furrowed brow, a concerned tilt of the head, "did you need something? Is everything alright?"
"oh, sit back down Merlin," Arthur answers with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I hadn't meant to interrupt. Just to enjoy the stars in peace myself." Like a cat, Arthur settles himself against the wall of the turret, craning his neck up, pretending this was his goal all along, and ignoring the quick flutter of his heart that Merlin might somehow reject him. As if Merlin were the prince and Arthur the servant. As if Merlin could send him away. Merlin does not try to send him away, just gives Arthur another long, puzzled look before lowering himself back to where he was laying on the ground. The limbs aren't sprawled in the same carefree way but his face still relaxes once it's pointed heavenward again. Arthur waits for what seems like an appropriate amount of time before speaking again.
"Do you know the constellations?" For some reason this is what comes out of Arthur's mouth and not the question he meant to ask. There is a comfort in teaching, in giving Merlin information. It feels like the right thing for a prince to do for a servant, albeit a close one.
"Some of them" Merlin answers, "the ones that everyone knows. My mother once told me a story about that gathering of seven but it was many years ago." He goes still and quiet for a moment, trying to remember, "I can't recall it now."
Arthur hums a soft agreement and lets the conversation die while he tries to figure out the right words for what he wants to ask; how to say it without changing the shape of their relationship.
"I love looking at the stars," Merlin says after a while, unable to withstand the quiet. "It reminds me that I am small. My problems feel less when considering the vastness of the sky."
Arthur takes the opening Merlin offers him before he has time to regret it, "I used to think I could divine my fate if I understood them well enough."
Merlin sniffs, swiping at his face with a quick motion that Arthur realizes he isn't supposed to have noticed. He does notice. It's Arthur's job to notice, to pay attention to the people around him, to remain vigilant. "I did too, when I was young."
"And now?" Arthur asks too quickly to remain nonchalant. Merlin shifts his legs.
"Now I think destiny is bigger than even them," Merlin replies in that voice he takes on sometimes where he sounds older than his years. "Trying to understand it only makes it harder to see properly."
Arthur stares at his servant, trying to determine where these things come from, these ideas that feel bigger than the young man lying in front of him. Merlin looks particularly young here in the soft glow of the moonlight.
"You're a mystery, Merlin," Arthur replies eventually with a bit of a sigh, suddenly weary of everything. "I feel like I know you one moment, and then once I have you figured out, you say something almost... Wise."
Then Merlin snorts a quick silly laugh and a bit of the spell that's fallen over them has broken and they are once again two not-quite-friends sharing a patch of stone on a cool evening.
"Why were you crying?" Arthur asks now, feeling more confident. He really does want to know, even if he suspects it will be something stupid.
"I was missing home," Merlin answers with that simple honesty that he usually has when answering Arthur's prying questions. "Sometimes it helps to look at the sky and remember that my mother is looking at the same sky back in Ealdor."
Arthur doesn't know how to respond. He can't call Merlin a pansy or a girl for missing his mother. Arthur didn't even know his mother but he still misses her all the same. Arthur's mother is dead, though, and cannot look at the stars even from somewhere else. She can only rot away in her stone casket somewhere deep below the castle.
The thought leaves him cold, and he stands with little ceremony.
"Well," he says to the boy who has no fear of laying himself bare before Arthur in the strangest of ways, "I think it's bedtime for the both of us. You have to clean and polish all of my armor before training tomorrow, as well as repairing my mail, and my laundry needs washing, and who knows what chores Gaius will have for you."
Merlin rolls his eyes at Arthur who leans over to replace the depth of the night sky with his own face, filling Merlin's vision with his own presence. Then Arthur offers down a hand, and Merlin grabs it with his own, and Arthur hefts Merlin to his feet, trying not to think about the way his hand feels as though it burns wherever Merlin touches it.
The stars will always be here tomorrow night, just as Merlin will always be by his side. This much Arthur knows.
Merlin isn’t sure how long he stands there, shin-deep in the water.
The last flickers of fire have long since gone out. The stinging stench of a burning body has faded, lost in the wind. There’s no sign that anything happened here, even though Merlin’s face is still damp, and each breath only jostles the sharp edges of what remains of his heart.
It’s almost as though Arthur never existed.
A fresh wave of grief threatens to pull Merlin under. He almost lets it. After all, if he had been faster– if he had done more, been the figure that destiny demanded– Arthur might still be alive. Merlin is the one who failed– it should be him, sunk beneath the surface of the lake.
There is still air in his lungs, though, wretched and wrong, and deep in his bones, he knows that Arthur has gone somewhere he cannot follow. Despite the visceral urge to wade into the lake’s depths and try anyway, Merlin also knows: he cannot stay here.
His heart is in his throat as he backs out of the water, not quite able to bring himself to care about his sodden boots. He needs to go– but where?
Camelot is Merlin’s first thought. Home. He isn’t the only person who has lost Arthur. Gaius has cared for Arthur since he was a child; the knights regarded him as a brother; Gwen has lost a husband— gods, Gwen, the only person who will understand the searing ache that’s embedded itself in Merlin’s chest because she loves loved him, too. They are all grieving, and Merlin should be there, to help pick up the broken pieces, because it’s all his fault. He should be there, so that they don’t grieve him, too.
But that means returning to a Camelot without Arthur— something Merlin has never known, and something he doesn’t know if he can bear. Every memory of the citadel is tinged with Arthur’s pursed lips and exasperated drawl of Merlin; the lower town is steeped in Arthur’s haughty smirk and the twirl of his mace; the woods are home to Arthur’s head thrown back in a carefree laugh at whatever Merlin has just said. What is Camelot without that? How is Merlin meant to walk through the city gates alone and wander the halls of the castle knowing that they will not echo with Arthur’s shouting, or stand before the throne in the great hall and see it devoid of its king?
How is he meant to bear the grief of his friends, knowing that he caused it?
Something squeezes in his chest, and he closes his eyes against the pain. Arthur is not the only thing that he has lost today. Merlin has lost the rest of his friends and family as well. He can never go home.
He turns his back on Camelot, and the cold road of exile welcomes him with open arms.
They had been riding for 5 hours in silence. 5 hours since Arthur had been exiled, and Merlin had followed him without a word.
5 hours since Merlin had stopped a dagger with magic in front of the court. 5 hours since Uther had ordered Merlin's execution. 5 hours since Arthur had taken the blame instead.
5 hours since Arthur had claimed he had been the one to make the dagger freeze in mid-air.
5 hours since Arthur claimed he'd been practicing magic.
And now they were here.
It was getting almost too dark to see. Merlin couldn't bring himself to say they should stop.
He felt like his whole world had come crashing down.
He had no idea how much worse it must be for Arthur. Arthur who had protected him without a second thought.
Yet he'd taken the blame, rather than let Merlin go to the pyre. He couldn't have even been sure Merlin was loyal. He didn't even have a second to think it through. He just acted.
Even though from the brief microsecond before Arthur had decided on his course of action, Merlin had seen a world of betrayal on his face.
Arthur hadn't known Merlin had magic.
He'd done it anyway. That was who Arthur was. Passion. Acting in the heat of the moment. It was part of what Merlin adored about him, even when it gave him headaches at the same time.
The prince couldn't have known exactly how Uther would react. Was the exile worse than he imagined? Or, gods, did he expect he would have ended up on the pyre himself?
Merlin wondered if he regretted it.
He must.
Arthur had been born a prince, and fought with everything he had to be a good one. It was his life.
And now it was gone.
Merlin wished with everything he had that he could turn back time, to before the feast when Arthur had thrown a sock at his head in anger, and Merlin had burst out laughing at the weakest threat he'd ever received - and Arthur had twitched his lips in response.
What would happen now?
"Let's make camp here, Merlin." Arthur suddenly cut through their silence, making Merlin jump. His voice was sure. Not afraid.
It only made Merlin more confused.
"As you say, Sire." He said unsurely, so unlike his usual self, as he got off his horse.
"Just Arthur. I no longer have that title, after all." Arthur said. He sounded tired, but accepting. Merlin wanted to shake him, ask why the hell he wasn't more upset about this when Merlin was breaking into pieces.
"Arthur. I'm - you can't know how sorry-"
"You saved my life, Merlin." Arthur interrupted him, looking away from his ex-manservant, now purely friend, as he tied his horse to a tree.
"I never wanted this." Merlin trembled. Why wasn't Arthur angry? Could it be... might Arthur actually understand? Even if he didn't know the facts? Might he know Merlin's nature, his loyalty - his love for his prince?
Arthur turned to face him. Even in the darkness, his eyes burned bright with emotion he rarely let show. "I don't regret it, Merlin. Even if you hadn't used it to save me, I could never abide you dying."
Merlin sucked in a deep breath. He felt a tear roll down his cheek. Arthur looked softly at him.
"Ever since you barged your way into my life, it's been you and me. And it always will be. I won't have it any other way." Arthur said, and it sounded like a promise. It sounded even more like an unspoken 'I love you' that Merlin had always longed to hear.
"I'll always be yours, Arthur." Merlin replied, even as another tear escaped, and his heart pounced in his chest.
Arthur smiled. "Then tomorrow you'll tell me everything. Including why on earth you'd come to Camelot in the first place. We'll plan from there. It will be okay, Merlin. I promise."
write a fic in 50 words (or more if the mood strikes you) and tag @merthurmicrofic so we can all enjoy your work! art, gifsets, essays, mood boards and so on are also welcome.
“Welcome, everyone, to the final episode of season 12 of Exile. And what a season it was: from seeing inevitable champions fall to unlikely heroes rise, this has been a journey none of us will soon forget.”
Merlin bounced his leg, sheathed tighter than he’d prefer in his suit trousers, and tried not to roll his eyes at Kil’s dramatics. Of course the producers sat him right behind that little asshole, Mordred. The fact that he was sitting here at all instead of in a cell somewhere made Merlin wish they were back on that stupid goddamned island, somewhere the cameras weren’t looking.
“Typically, our first questions go to the season’s victor—and what a victory it was.” Kil gestured to Gwen, across the semicircle of contestants from Merlin and looking radiant in a light blue dress, sweetheart neckline, her curly hair loose and free around her sweet face. Not to mention the sparkling engagement ring newly adorning her finger.
Kil went on, “But, given the circumstances, I think it might be best to start with the breaking news. All right with everyone?”
“Please, Kil, go ahead. I understand completely,” said Gwen.
“Thank you. Arthur,” Kil said his name warmly, like everyone didn’t know he was a cold-blooded reptile beneath that television-ready white-toothed grin. “Truly, we’re all so glad to see you here in good health.”
“No one is gladder than I am.”
Arthur’s reply, in that smooth golden voice, media-trained long before Exile like no one else was, broke over Merlin’s ears and sent goosebumps shivering up and down his body. He’d almost forgotten what Arthur was like in front of the camera, the way all the light in the room cozied up to him, the way every eye was unable to look away. It was an easy thing to forget when the same man was texting him in full sentences with salutations and sign-offs, shedding actual tears over football scores, or snoring on Merlin’s couch after a single pint.
But not everyone was as enamored as poor pathetic Merlin. In front of him, Mordred had tensed, fists clenched in his lap. Merlin let a smirk take over his face. Good. Merlin hoped he was absolutely seething, seeing firsthand that he hadn’t actually done Arthur any permanent damage.
“And you’re regaining full use of the leg, is that right?” Kil was saying.
Arthur nodded, but tapped his own left leg with the cane he carried. “There’s still a ways to go with physical therapy, but yes, the doctors have assured me it’s within my grasp.”
“Wonderful. Truly wonderful, that such a tragic accident can still have such a happy ending.”
Merlin twitched, but rapidly schooled his face into stoic disapproval as one of the side cameras moved to focus on him. Accident. Maybe it would be an accident if he kicked Mordred right in the—
Kil carried on, “But, of course, your recovery is only one of the topics our viewers and contestants want to hear from you tonight. Right beside you is another one of our final six contestants: Ms. Morgana Gorlois. Morgana, you found yourself on the wrong side of one of this season’s most shocking twists, when Merlin broke your alliance and voted you off to save Arthur. But since our show finale, you’ve faced an even greater twist in your personal life, isn’t that right?”
Still in full view of the camera, Merlin winced. He hadn’t wanted to betray Morgana, exactly, it was just that she had Gwen and Mordred’s total loyalty and was on the verge of converting Leon too…
And Merlin hadn’t been ready to say goodbye.
Morgana’s mouth twisted down, in a sneer that was too ethereally beautiful to be as rude as she clearly meant it. “I would definitely characterize the latter as a betrayal rather than a twist,” she said coldly.
“Of course, I don’t blame you. And the two of you really had never met before you met on Exile?” Kil asked.
“Our families were acquainted,” Arthur said.
“But neither of us knew how closely,” Morgana finished.
Kil pushed, “But it seems like, despite everything, the two of you are pursuing a connection outside the show, now that you know the truth.”
Arthur and Morgana exchanged a glance. Then it was Arthur who spoke, “My father passed away shortly after Morgana learned he was her biological father and before he had a chance to explain himself. We’ll never know what drove him. But if something good can come of it, well.”
Unexpectedly, his eyes left Kil and sought out Merlin. Those eyes were so brilliantly blue under the filming lights that even from across the stage, Merlin could drown in them.
Arthur continued, “We all competed on a show called Exile, but despite the title, we are stronger for the bonds it forged between us.”
“That’s beautiful, Arthur. Thank you. And it gives me a perfect opportunity to return the spotlight where it belongs. Morgana, why don’t you tell us all about your connection with our cunning, stalwart champion? When is the wedding?”
The interview carried on, but Merlin was way ahead of it. He hadn’t cared about Exile since the day Arthur had left by helicopter instead of vote. Soon enough, the cameras would stop rolling, and Arthur would be his again, outside the media’s eye.
@merthurmicrofic prompt: exile
Word count: 1232 words
Written as a follow-up to my hole microfic, which will add context, but it's not mandatory reading :)
In the little hut in the middle of the secluded wood, Merlin forwent sleep, peace, and sanity in favour of working by the guttering candlelight to save his dying friend.
There was a hole in him, where there ought not to be one; and so his friend, who was Arthur, lay sweating and bleeding in his bed, where usually there was only Merlin, or some incidental crumbs.
Merlin could handle the exhaustion of a sleepless night, and he’d long ago learned to quiet the anxious ruminations he’d suffered working over the ailing and the crippled as a young physician in training; yet even as he took deep and fortifying breaths, he could not quell the trembling in his fingers as he drew the needle meticulously back and forth through Arthur’s skin.
It was too reminiscent of that night nine years ago, when Arthur had lain just as he did now, clammy and ashen-faced, upon the field of Camlann, with the wound from Mordred’s sword in his side.
With the sutures pulled into a neat row, Merlin sat back and mopped Arthur’s sweating brow. He felt for Arthur’s pulse in his neck, and felt it beating there, slow and steady, for a long time against his fingers. The dwale had taken hold of him, and he slept almost peacefully, as if he were merely resting, and hadn’t almost bled to death all over Merlin’s bedclothes.
~~~~
The sun had just crested over the browning elm, its light shining on their half-naked and shivering limbs, by the time Arthur woke. Merlin was rising from stirring the stew over the hearth when he noticed the eyes on him. He froze, and the stare that passed between them could not have been broken by holy flood nor hellfire.
“Merlin?” Arthur rasped. He made to sit up and grimaced, clutching his side.
“Don’t move,” Merlin said, bustling over to him. “You’ll pull your stitches.” With a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, he helped guide him back down; then he stood back.
Merlin had long grown used to the quiet: the days filled with nothing but the sounds in the trees and his own absentminded humming, but now, with the familiar eyes looking up at him, the silence was oppressive, and he felt the urgent need to fill it.
“Do you want stew? I made stew. Well, too bad if you don’t, actually, because that’s what we’re having, and you need to get your strength back, so this will help. It won’t be as rich as what you’re used to back in Camelot, but it’s hearty; it’s got venison, so…” He had moved, much like his tongue, without thinking, and found himself back over by the hearth, ladling stew into bowls before his brain had caught up with him. It was much easier, it turned out, to look down into the bubbling brown sludge than it was to look upon the face of a man you’d not seen for nine years, particularly when he was conscious.
When he turned back, Arthur was still looking at him, a little furrow between his brows, as if Merlin were a riddle and Arthur a particularly dim-witted mountain troll. The look was so familiar, it could have elicited a smile, were it not for the nervous energy thrumming in him, turning all his synapses to something reminiscent of the stew in the pot.
Then Arthur said, weakly, “I’m—where are my clothes?”
“Oh. Ah. Yeah. Sorry. I had to cut your tunic off to get to your wound, but it was so covered in blood, there was no saving it. The rest are drying.” He shifted so Arthur could see the trousers, socks and boots set by the hearth. “They were caked in mud, so I washed them.”
“Right.”
The silence was that uneasy sort, full of staring and a decade’s worth of things unsaid. Merlin stood with the stew in his hand, and his heart lodged somewhere up around his jugular.
“Are you cold? I can get you something of mine—”
“You’ve not slept at all?” Arthur said, at the same time.
“No.”
“Ah. No, I’m okay. The fire.”
“Okay.”
There was another agonising moment of The Silence, then: “Is that for me?” Arthur said, indicating the stew.
“Oh, yeah.” Merlin went to him, and took up the chair he’d sat vigil in all that long night, where he’d waited to see whether he’d be friendless again, by God’s hand this time, rather than his own.
Arthur reached out for the bowl, his arm trembling with the effort of raising it.
“No, I can do it,” Merlin said, and lifted the spoon to Arthur’s lips.
Arthur made a face as he swallowed down the stew. “Your cooking’s just as I remember it.”
“Oh, nice to see you haven’t changed at all. You’re still an ungrateful, arrogant prat. Comfort to know.”
“You haven’t changed either,” Arthur said defensively. “Still prattling on as usual.”
“You would too if you hadn’t had anyone to talk to for nine years.” He had said it like a joke, but the smile quickly left his face; he looked away, while Arthur looked deeply troubled.
“I—we did—that is to say, we sent out a search party, after… but—we never…”
“I put up wards.”
“Oh.”
“Look, we don’t have to talk about this,” Merlin said, and forced that smile which is not really a smile but a plea for the hurt not to be seen.
Arthur looked down, and then at the spoon which Merlin was still driving at his mouth, as if he could prevent any further heartache by means of stew alone. He nodded, and then, finally, after swallowing the latest spoonful, slowly said, “Okay. If that’s what you want.”
“It is. What I want is for you to heal, so you can get back to Camelot. They’ll be missing their king.” Merlin stood to leave, but Arthur reached for his wrist. Merlin felt the trembling touch on his skin, and closed his eyes. He had touched Arthur; in saving his life, he had had to, but he hadn’t been touched by Arthur, by another, since that day he had been sent away. And though it was only that meaningless thing, a quick grab for his attention—Arthur likely hadn’t the strength nor the desire to hold him any tighter—it still was like a balm for one so long alone.
“I—” Arthur said, and Merlin lifted his eyes to him. “I guess you have changed. A little bit,” he said finally.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he said, and dropped his hand; Merlin tried not to mourn the loss too much. “Your hair’s longer, and you’ve got that—ridiculous stubble.”
Merlin felt, for the first time in a long time, the dimples hidden by the stubble grace his scratchy cheek. “You’re just jealous you can’t grow any.”
“I am not jealous.”
“Sure sounded jealous to me.”
“Well, you need to get your hearing checked, then.”
The hurts were still there inside him, as they had been, and as they would be for a long time to come, and he would talk about them, probably, eventually, once Arthur was healed, and he felt that they both could stomach it; but for now, he smiled at Arthur, and Arthur smiled, a little tentatively, back at him, and Merlin felt that something sorely missed had returned to him.
@merthurmicrofic {} prompt: Exile {} words: 135 (on the dot *chefs kiss* great number) {} I actually really like this. I don't do short and concise very often but I feel when I do I do it well yk (let me have this) {}
How had it come to this?
Deep down, he supposed he knew. And deep down, perhaps he may have considered this outcome.
Uther sank back in his seat, accepting the fate that would soon befall him.
"You shouldn't have exiled Arthur," Morgana mused, tipping the rest of his wine into a plant. He watched as it shriveled to a dry, blackened wisp. "He always loved you more."
Air refused to reach his lungs as he tried to justify his actions. Pointlessly explain himself despite the facts.
"But...I suppose not more than he loved Merlin," Morgana turned back to him with an amused glint in her eyes. Something lurched inside of Uther's chest and he couldn't tell if it was disgust or his failing heart.
"Don't worry. I will welcome them both back with open arms."
Merlin's barely recovered from the shock of hearing a polite knock on his very remote little cottage, when he swings the door open to find Arthur Pendragon staring at him. "I've been exiled," Arthur says calmly. "May I come in?"
"What?" Merlin wheezes.
Arthur seems to take that as invitation enough, shouldering past Merlin to enter. Dimly, Merlin notices he's wearing his long traveling coat, his sword at his hip, and a pack slung over his shoulder. "You keep this place just as messy as you did my chambers," Arthur tuts, looking over the humble interior of Merlin's cottage. His nose wrinkles in distaste as he looks at the dirty bowls on the table sat next to tinctures of bitter and poisonous plants, and Merlin's few articles of clothing drying on all the chair-backs. "Honestly, Merlin, what would your mother think?"
He swings his pack around, throws it down on the table, and begins to remove his coat. "I," Merlin breathes. "You. What are you—"
"Please tell me you have some actual meat in this hovel," Arthur adds. "It's a very long ride from Camelot, and I didn't stop to hunt for fear that I wouldn't make it here before nightfall."
He removes his coat, folding it and putting it up on a nail that sticks out from a wall. He turns and looks at Merlin expectantly. "Well?"
"EXILE?!" Merlin shrieks. "What are you— you're not— how did you even—"
His magic is bubbling up inside of him, confused, hurt, and restless. If Merlin hadn't already checked that it is indeed Arthur standing in front of him, he'd have thought the man an imposter. "How did you find me?" he settles on, hands curling into fists in an effort to control his raging emotions.
"I didn't," Arthur says. He leans over, absentmindedly straightening a pile of scrolls Merlin left askew. "I always knew where you went."
"What?"
"Lancelot is a very good tracker," Arthur says, in the tone of voice that indicates it explains everything Merlin needs to know. "Although he got a little too close following that business with the Sluagh. I told him to make sure you were well, not press his face into the windows."
"The wards," Merlin says faintly. He felt them thrum a couple weeks prior, indicating that someone had approached his cottage, although Merlin was unable to discover who.
His magic gave him no such warning for Arthur's arrival, the bastard.
"You've known where I've been ever since you sent me away," Merlin says slowly, trying to make his mind understand. Arthur is still looking at him with the expression he has whenever he thinks Merlin is being particularly slow about something. "And you didn't… mind? Say something?" Scream at me to leave? Show up with a company of Camelot's knights to dole out the law?
Arthur looks cross. "Well, you could have chosen someplace further than a day's ride out from Camelot," he says, and Merlin winces. Arthur then suddenly looks apologetic, and Merlin doesn't know why. "But it's for the best that you didn't. It would have been too hard for me to reach you had I need of you."
"Need of me," Merlin echoes faintly.
Arthur's apologetic expression melts into one of guilt. "I— I made sure I wasn't followed," Arthur says, and it is as he is instinctively flexing his hand that Merlin notices the bruises on his knuckles. "But I should have been more careful. My father, well—" A pained expression crosses his face. "Out of the two options, I was betting that he wouldn't choose exile. The other, I could handle."
Oh. So that's what this is about. Arthur has done something to irritate Uther, and he has turned to Merlin to fix it. He is desperate enough to decide he has need of Merlin again to seek him out. Merlin supposes it shouldn't be surprising that Arthur knows where he is, since it doesn't matter where he lives, as long as it is away from Arthur. Or maybe Arthur just wants the security of knowing Merlin can't run if Arthur decides to renege on his mercy.
If Merlin were his own friend, he would advise himself to have more self-respect. As it stands, at least there is no one else in the cottage to witness how pathetic he is. "What do you need?" Merlin says quietly.
Arthur shoots him a look. "Well, a fire would be nice, for starters. And I wasn't kidding about needing a meal—"
"With Uther," Merlin says exasperatedly. "Surely you must have some idea of how to calm his anger. I could conjure a kelpie and make sure there are witnesses to you heroically slaying it—"
"I've got my father under control," Arthur says. "Sure, it does make things a bit harder having to conduct a base of operations from this…." He looks around, and decides on a word that won't spark Merlin's ire, "abode, but my knights and I have been using coded communication for months now. The council was losing faith in him even before he chose to exile the crown prince. I give it less than a month before he brings Camelot to the brink of crisis, and then I'm sure the guards will be more than happy to allow me to return."
Merlin blinks. Perhaps this really is an imposter that has entered his home wearing Arthur's skin, or maybe he has finally gone utterly mad. He would have thought it would take more than half a year of broken-hearted solitude to get to that point. "Arthur, what are you talking about—"
"Oh, right. I'm sorry, I considered sending Lancelot with a message, but I didn't want him to be caught with anything on him were he found. I couldn't—" His thumb brushes over his lip, and Merlin sees a scab there. "I couldn't risk anything pointing to your location. Hence why I told my father I wouldn't give up that information, even under torture."
"What?!"
"Don't ruffle your petticoat, I'm fine," Arthur says quickly, as if Merlin had not just felt his magic jumping under his skin with all the fury of a dragon guarding its treasure. "I was expecting him to take me up on the offer, and then I wouldn't have to bother you. But it seems my father decided it more appropriate to strip me of my rank and title until I told him where you've been hiding."
Merlin stares at Arthur dumbly. There's no doubt about it, he has gone mad.
At least one of them, anyway.
"Why wouldn't you just tell your father where I am?"
"Very funny. Should I have offered to lead the knights to capture you myself, then?"
Merlin keeps his face blank to conceal the pain. "I suppose."
Arthur gives him a queer look. "You're acting odd. Did your brain wither away from having a forest respite for a few months?"
"Forest respite," Merlin sputters, and he may be pathetic but he still has enough dignity to grow angry. "I don't know what you want, and I'll help you with whatever you need, but might I remind you that you were the one that exiled me!"
Arthur rolls his eyes, and Merlin's hands curl into fists. "You're being dramatic."
It's so casual, so thoughtlessly cruel, that Merlin's magic lashes out before he can stop it. It doesn't hurt Arthur—he never would, never could—but Arthur's mouth falls open as he is shoved into a chair and held in place with invisible hands. For a second, fear flashes across his face, but even that is not enough to quell the anger inside Merlin. Like the first crack of ice across a frozen lake, it only splinters under further pressure.
"I did everything for you," Merlin rasps. "I bled, I killed, I would do it again without hesitation, and I know I lied to you, I know I hurt you, but— but you can't just turn up again like nothing has happened, when you sent me away—"
"—Merlin—"
"It's not fair, it's not fair to take me up one day and cast me away the next, so after this," Merlin's voice trembles, but he juts his chin upwards, he is stronger than this, damn it, "if you no longer wish to see me, then respect your own wishes and leave me be—"
"Merlin!" Arthur is still straining against the weight of the magic holding him in place. But he doesn't look angry, more confused and irritated. And sweaty. "When did I exile you?"
"Oh, I don't know," Merlin snaps. "Maybe this will refresh your recollection: 'Leave here now and don't come back.'"
He knows his voice is a harsh imitation of Arthur's exact words, as they have been ringing in his head since the moment he first heard them. They had barely sunk in, leaving their impression in the grove of his mind—a permanent scar that would never fade—when Arthur barked, "Now," his expression utterly furious. And Merlin had listened.
He breathes out harshly, trying to get a rein on his anger. And Arthur looks—
—well. He doesn't have a word to describe how Arthur looks, exactly.
"Merlin. You did magic in front of my father and his entire court." Arthur is speaking very clearly and slowly. "It was all I could do to buy you enough time so you wouldn't be caught while you fled."
Merlin blinks. He hasn't focused on that part of the situation, truly. He has been more concerned with the hurt in Arthur's eyes, the way his expression turned cold and commanding within a second. All of it, targeted at Merlin. "You were angry."
"I was frightened." Something shudders across Arthur's face before he can conceal its honesty. "I always knew you were a reckless idiot, with how little you cared for doing magic in plain sight, but I knew even I couldn't save you from that display—"
"You." Merlin feels dizzy. He sinks heavily into one of his chairs, and he hears Arthur take a deep breath as his magic releases his hold on him. "You knew. About my magic."
"Of course I knew; I'm not blind," Arthur says, aghast. "I just figured you were pretending otherwise so we wouldn't have to talk about it. Did you really not—" And then his mouth closes. He blinks. Merlin can almost see the coals inside of Arthur's head producing steam. When he speaks again, his voice is small. "I see now. How things might have occurred differently to you."
Part of Merlin wants to cry, part of him wants to scream, part of him wants to laugh hysterically, and he very bravely and wisely does not do any of that. "So you weren't sending me away. Forever, that is."
"No." There is a similar edge of hysteria to Arthur's voice. "Just until I could make it safe for you again. Until I could bring you back to Camelot."
"You kept track of where I was," Merlin says distantly. "You—" He shakes his head quickly. "Arthur, you didn't— please tell me you didn't tell Uther to torture you rather than reveal where I was— I'm not worth it, why did you, why—"
He stops when he finally catches Arthur's eye. Arthur is looking at him in a way Merlin had only caught in glimpses before, like a beam piercing through the clouds, but now the full force of the sun is shining upon him. "How is it obvious to everyone other than you?" Arthur asks.
Merlin's face shatters, and Arthur is out of his chair, making his way over with apologies, and Merlin hears him saying something about how he assumed, he was wrong, he didn't mean to, and that nothing needs to change. He puts his hand on Merlin's shoulder, and Merlin realizes they are both great idiots, and it is probably better to speak with their actions, rather than words. So he does exactly that.
It is only when Arthur has his breeches half undone that he pauses to speak, as he hikes Arthur's tunic up for better access to his chest. "I do love you too, by the way."
"Glad we got that sorted," Arthur replies, and they tumble into bed, basking in the privilege of an undisturbed exile.
He has seen men trampled so deeply into battlefield mud that their bodies no longer looked human afterward. He has heard the crack of bones beneath horseshoes and the wet, choking gargle of soldiers drowning in their own blood. He has watched knights scream for God, for mothers, for wives waiting hundreds of miles away who would never know their last words.
He has carried boys barely old enough to shave from the field while they shook in his arms and sobbed that they did not want to die. He has smelled burned flesh. Split intestines. Iron-rich blood steaming in winter air.
Death has followed Arthur for so long it should not still horrify him.
And yet none of it prepared him for silence.
Because Merlin has always been noise.
Even asleep, he mutters. Complains beneath his breath. Steals blankets and then denies it in the morning with complete sincerity. He wakes before sunrise looking half-dead and somehow still finds enough energy to argue with Arthur before either of them have properly opened their eyes.
He fills every room he enters. Every corridor. Every quiet moment Arthur never realized had become dependent on him.
Merlin hums while polishing armor. Talks to himself while organizing herbs. Grumbles dramatically whenever Arthur gives him more work. He laughs too loudly. Slams doors. Trips over absolutely nothing.
Alive in every possible way.
Now he lies still enough to look unreal.
Arthur sits beside the bed and stares at the slow rise and fall of Merlin’s chest because if he looks away for too long—if he blinks for even a second—terror claws up his spine with the certainty that it will stop.
That the next breath simply will not come.
Gaius had said the wound missed his heart by inches.
Inches.
As though that is meant to be comforting.
As though Arthur should somehow feel grateful for a blade that merely ruined Merlin instead of killing him outright.
The room smells thickly of crushed herbs, damp linen, and old blood. Rain taps softly against the castle windows, steady and cold. Somewhere deeper within Camelot, servants are laughing at something. The sound reaches Arthur faintly through stone corridors. A sudden, vicious hatred twists through him. How dare they laugh. How dare the world continue spinning while Merlin lies motionless beneath pale blankets. How dare anyone breathe easily while Arthur feels like every inhale is scraping broken glass through his ribs.
Arthur leans forward slowly, elbows braced against his knees. He has not fully removed his armor. One gauntlet still hangs from his wrist. His undershirt is stiff with dried blood.
There is still some beneath Arthur’s fingernails no matter how many times he scrubbed his hands raw trying to remove it.
He remembers everything too clearly.
The battlefield had dissolved into chaos near dusk. Smoke swallowing the horizon. Horses screaming. Men shouting over the deafening clash of steel. Arthur had been shouting commands until his throat burned raw, trying to force order onto a battle already collapsing into madness.
Then Merlin had appeared.
Arthur does not even remember seeing him approach. One moment he had been fighting; the next Merlin was there between Arthur and an enemy soldier with a sword already descending.
Arthur remembers the sound most.
That horrible, soft sound.
Steel entering flesh.
Merlin jerked violently. His eyes widened—not even in pain at first, just confusion. Genuine confusion, as though he himself could not understand why he was suddenly falling.
Arthur remembers catching him before he hit the ground. Remembers blood pouring through his fingers so quickly it felt impossible for one body to contain that much of it. Hot enough to steam in the freezing evening air.
Merlin had tried to speak.
Arthur remembers that too.
His lips moved weakly, but blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth instead.
Arthur had screamed for help.
The prince of Camelot reduced in an instant to something terrified and helpless and painfully human.
Arthur squeezes his eyes shut now hard enough to ache.
“You absolute idiot,” he whispers.
Merlin does not answer.
The silence feels wrong. Unnatural. Like the world itself has tilted sideways.
Gaius had said he may never wake.
Arthur had nearly struck him for saying it aloud.
Instead Arthur had simply stood there, frozen motionless while something inside him quietly tore apart.
He reaches for Merlin’s hand carefully now, almost afraid to touch him.
It feels too cold despite the mountain of blankets piled over him.
Arthur wraps both hands around it.
“You know,” he says hoarsely, forcing the words past the tightness in his throat, “this is the longest you’ve ever gone without annoying me.”
Nothing.
“I should be enjoying it.”
Still nothing.
Arthur swallows painfully.
“I’m not.”
His voice breaks on the last word. Weak. Humiliatingly weak.
Arthur looks away instantly, jaw locking hard enough to hurt. There is nobody here to witness it, but shame still floods him instinctively. Kings are not meant to unravel beside sickbeds. Knights are not meant to sit helpless while someone else fights a battle they cannot reach.
But Arthur would rather face ten armies than this.
Because at least armies can be fought.
This is only waiting.
Waiting while Merlin drifts somewhere Arthur cannot follow.
Arthur’s grip tightens around Merlin’s hand until his own knuckles ache white. His thoughts spiral helplessly back to the battlefield again and again and again. To blood soaking through his gloves. To Merlin trembling violently in his arms. To the terrifying weight of him suddenly going slack.
Arthur had genuinely thought he died there.
For one endless, horrific moment, Arthur had believed Merlin was dead.
And something inside him had stopped.
Like his own heart had forgotten how to beat.
Merlin shifts faintly beneath the blankets.
Arthur jerks upright so violently the chair scrapes harshly across stone.
“Merlin?”
Nothing.
Only another shallow breath leaving pale lips.
Arthur sags again, exhausted by hope. Exhausted by the way his heart launches itself desperately toward every tiny movement only to crash moments later.
The door slams open hard enough to rattle the walls.
Gwaine strides in like a storm given human form.
He still wears bloodstained armor. There is a cut across his cheekbone dried black with old blood, and his eyes are viciously awake despite the hour. Fury radiates off him so intensely the room itself seems smaller for it.
Arthur rises automatically. “Be qu—”
“Shut up, Arthur.”
The words crack through the room like a whip.
Arthur goes still.
Gwaine looks at Merlin only once.
And Arthur watches something unbearable flicker briefly across his face before rage swallows it whole. Fear. Grief. Terror.
Love.
“This,” Gwaine says quietly, “is your fault.”
Arthur has been blamed before. By enemies. By grieving families. By kings furious over war and death and politics. None of it has ever landed like this.
His jaw tightens. “He chose to step into that fight.”
“Yes,” Gwaine snaps immediately, “because he always chooses you.”
Silence crashes down.
Rain pounds harder against the windows now, rattling faintly against glass.
Arthur says carefully, dangerously, “Mind your tone.”
Gwaine laughs. It is an awful sound. Bitter enough to rot the air.
“Oh, there’s the prince,” he says. “I was wondering when he’d finally show up.”
Arthur feels anger stirring now—thin and exhausted and brittle from days without sleep. “You forget yourself.”
“No,” Gwaine says. “I think you do.”
Arthur stares at him.
Gwaine points toward the bed with visibly shaking hands.
“He follows you into every suicidal situation without hesitation. He throws himself between you and danger like his life means nothing because somewhere along the way you taught him it doesn’t.”
Arthur flinches before he can stop himself.
Gwaine sees it immediately.
“You know what the worst part is?” Gwaine asks, voice roughening. “He’d do it again.”
Arthur cannot breathe properly because yes.
Yes, Merlin would.
Without hesitation. Without pause. Without even thinking about himself first.
And suddenly memories hit Arthur all at once in brutal succession.
Merlin stepping between Arthur and armed men. Merlin taking blame for things that were never his fault. Merlin running toward danger every single time Arthur called his name. Merlin exhausted, bruised, frightened—and still following. Always following.
As though Arthur was something worth dying for.
Gwaine drags a hand violently over his face.
“He was terrified of battle,” he says suddenly.
Arthur blinks. “What?”
“The first time he rode with us.” Gwaine’s voice is quieter now, somehow worse for it. “He thought nobody noticed. Could barely hold a sword properly. Nearly got sick before the fighting even started.”
Arthur stares at Merlin’s motionless face.
That cannot be true.
Merlin complained constantly, yes, but Merlin followed. Every single time. Arthur had assumed—
No.
Arthur had never actually thought about it at all.
Something inside Arthur cracks open slowly and catastrophically.
Because he never asked.
Not once.
Never asked whether Merlin was afraid. Never asked whether he was tired. Never asked whether carrying Arthur’s burdens was crushing him piece by piece. Arthur had simply expected Merlin to be there.
Always.
Like breathing.
Like sunlight.
Like something inevitable.
Arthur sinks slowly back into the chair before his legs fully give out beneath him. Merlin does not stir.
Gwaine watches Arthur for a long, terrible moment.
“If he dies…”
Arthur shuts his eyes immediately.
No.
No.
“If he dies,” Gwaine repeats, voice splintering around the edges now, “I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you.”
Arthur cannot answer.
Because the horrible thing—the thing poisoning him from the inside out—is that if Merlin dies, Arthur does not think he will survive it either.
Not truly.
The room falls silent except for rain and breathing.
Arthur looks down slowly at Merlin’s hand still trapped carefully between his own. There are calluses there Arthur has somehow never noticed before. Thin scars crossing his knuckles. Tiny healed burns along his fingers. Evidence of pain Arthur never bothered to look closely enough to see.
How many injuries had Merlin hidden?
How much suffering had Arthur laughed off?
Arthur remembers every careless dismissal now with sickening clarity. Every eye-roll. Every cruel joke. Every thoughtless order barked simply because Merlin would obey it.
And Merlin had stayed anyway.
Arthur bends forward abruptly, pressing Merlin’s cold hand hard against his forehead because suddenly the distance between them feels unbearable.
“I didn’t know,” he whispers.
The confession tears itself out of him raw and ragged.
“I didn’t know.”
His voice shakes violently.
Across the room, Gwaine looks away.
Arthur’s shoulders tremble once before he forces them still again through sheer effort.
The prince of Camelot does not fall apart.
But there is nobody here to witness it except a sleeping man and a furious knight, and Arthur feels dangerously close to shattering anyway.
Days pass strangely after that.
Time loses shape inside Gaius’s chambers. Morning and night blur together until Arthur only recognizes them by the changing light through the windows and the growing ache in his body from exhaustion.
People begin speaking softly around him.
As though grief itself has settled over the castle like fog.
Servants lower their voices when Arthur passes. Knights stop mid-conversation when he enters rooms. Even the court feels muted now, stripped of its usual life.
Gwen brings food sometimes. Warm bread. Soup. Tea gone cold before Arthur remembers to touch it. She sets the trays quietly beside him without asking questions anymore.
None of it gets eaten.
Gaius insists Arthur sleep at least once every several hours. Arthur ignores him so thoroughly that eventually the old physician simply sighs instead of arguing. Leon handles royal duties where he can. Documents pile untouched in Arthur’s chambers. Meetings are postponed.
Arthur barely notices any of it.
His entire world has narrowed down to one bed.
To Merlin’s breathing.
To every tiny movement that might mean waking.
Sometimes Arthur talks because the silence becomes unbearable otherwise.
At first it is practical things. Court affairs. Complaints about treaties. Updates on repairs being made to the western wall after the siege.
Anything to fill the room.
But eventually exhaustion strips away the careful distance Arthur normally keeps wrapped around himself like armor.
“You’ve caused me an unbelievable amount of paperwork,” he mutters one evening while rain rattles softly against the windows. “Leon says half the servants are terrified because apparently I’ve been glaring at everyone.”
Merlin does not move.
Arthur swallows around the tightness in his throat.
“This is all your fault.”
Nothing.
The words echo emptily against stone walls.
Arthur stares at him for a long moment afterward. Merlin looks almost translucent now in the candlelight. Too pale. Dark bruises still stain the skin beneath his eyes. His lips are cracked despite Gaius’s constant efforts to keep him hydrated.
Arthur hates seeing him like this.
Helpless. Fragile.
Human in a way Arthur has never allowed himself to fully understand before.
Late one night, long after even Gaius has fallen asleep at his desk nearby, Arthur finally speaks the thought that has been rotting inside him for days.
“I don’t know how to do this without you.”
The words leave him before he can stop them.
Arthur freezes instantly.
Horrified.
Because it is true.
Not just the practical things, though there are plenty of those. Arthur does not know where half his belongings are without Merlin. He cannot remember which meetings matter. His chambers feel wrong untouched by Merlin’s constant chaotic presence.
But it is worse than that.
Arthur does not know how to exist in a world where Merlin is absent from it.
The realization settles into his chest slowly, terribly.
Merlin has threaded himself so completely through Arthur’s life that pulling him away now feels like tearing stitches from skin.
Arthur stares at Merlin in the darkness, pulse hammering unevenly beneath his ribs.
But Merlin remains unconscious, and the confession hangs unanswered between them.
Arthur laughs once under his breath. A miserable sound.
“Good,” he mutters thickly. “You’d never let me live that down.”
Still nothing.
The worst moments are the hopeful ones.
A twitch of Merlin’s fingers.
A sharper inhale.
A faint crease appearing briefly between his brows.
Arthur lurches upright every single time, heart slamming painfully against his ribs hard enough to make him dizzy.
Every single time it means nothing.
Hope becomes exhausting.
And slowly the fear inside Arthur changes shape.
At first he feared Merlin dying.
Now he fears something crueler.
That Merlin is already gone in every way that matters, and Arthur is merely sitting vigil beside the shell left behind.
The thought makes him feel physically sick.
“No,” Arthur says aloud immediately, violently.
His grip tightens around Merlin’s hand.
“No. You do not get to leave me like this.”
His throat burns painfully.
“You cannot spend years barging into my chambers before sunrise, ruining every meal I’ve ever attempted to eat in peace, insulting me constantly—”
His voice fractures sharply.
“—and then disappear.”
The room blurs.
Arthur bows his head abruptly, shoulders trembling once beneath the weight of something he cannot hold back anymore.
Because suddenly he remembers everything.
Not battlefield memories. Not blood.
Smaller things. Worse things.
Merlin laughing breathlessly while trying to keep up beside Arthur on hunts. Merlin asleep at Arthur’s table after nights spent working too late. Merlin standing at Arthur’s shoulder during feasts looking unbearably bored. Merlin smiling—small and genuine and devastatingly rare whenever Arthur praised him accidentally.
Years of moments Arthur never realized he was collecting until now.
And the horrible truth beneath all of them:
Arthur has loved him for far longer than he understood.
The realization does not arrive gently.
It crashes through him. Sudden and absolute and undeniable.
Arthur loves Merlin.
Not in the abstract way kings love loyal servants. Not in the easy way soldiers love brothers-in-arms.
This is terrifying.
Because Arthur cannot imagine a future without him in it. Because Merlin’s pain feels carved directly into Arthur’s own ribs. Because Arthur would burn kingdoms to the ground before willingly losing him.
Arthur presses Merlin’s hand hard against his forehead like prayer.
“I need you,” he chokes out finally.
The admission strips him bare.
Painful as tearing armor from skin.
“I need you alive.”
For one horrible moment, nothing happens.
Then—
A twitch.
Tiny. Barely there.
Arthur freezes.
Merlin’s fingers curl weakly against his.
Arthur’s head snaps upward so quickly the chair nearly overturns behind him.
“Merlin?”
Merlin’s face tightens faintly, like someone struggling upward through deep water. His breathing catches unevenly.
Arthur is on his feet instantly so fast dizziness crashes through him.
“Gaius!” he shouts toward the other room, voice cracking violently with panic and hope. “GAIUS!”
The old physician startles awake with a curse, nearly knocking books from the table as he rushes over.
“What is it? What happened—”
“He moved,” Arthur says breathlessly. “His hand—Merlin, can you hear me?”
Merlin’s brow furrows weakly.
His lips part slightly.
For one terrible second no sound comes out at all, and Arthur feels fresh panic clawing up his throat—
Then Merlin whispers something too faint to hear.
Arthur bends down immediately, gripping the side of the bed hard enough to ache.
“What?”
Merlin’s eyelashes flutter weakly. His voice is barely breath. Broken and rough from disuse.
“…hungry.”
Arthur stares at him.
Then lets out one sharp, disbelieving laugh that sounds dangerously close to a sob.
Gaius makes a startled noise of relief somewhere behind him, but Arthur barely hears it.
Because Merlin’s eyes are opening.
Slowly. Painfully.
Blue and unfocused and alive.
Alive.
Arthur feels something inside him collapse all at once. Weeks of terror, exhaustion, grief, and desperate hope crashing through him so violently his knees nearly give out.
Merlin squints weakly at him for several long seconds.
“…you look awful,” he mumbles.
Arthur actually makes a strangled sound. Half laugh. Half shattered breath.
“You nearly died,” he says hoarsely. “And you’re insulting me.”
Merlin’s eyes drift closed again briefly, exhausted already. But his fingers remain curled weakly around Arthur’s hand.
“Priorities,” he whispers.
Arthur bows his head sharply before Merlin can see his expression fully break apart.
Because relief hurts.
It hurts almost as much as fear did.
Arthur presses Merlin’s hand against his mouth for one brief, desperate moment before he remembers himself.
Arthur had dismissed Merlin hours and hours ago, it being the middle of the bloody night and all, so the absolute last thing he could have anticipated upon opening his chamber door was to find the exact same man standing in the hallway. He looked a bit sheepish, and a lot tired.
“Oh. Well, hello, Arthur.”
“Why are you creeping?” Arthur asked. He hadn’t been able to fall asleep yet, instead just rolling around in his sheets like a hound in mud, and so had heard the footsteps approaching his door—and then eerily stopping in front of his door—with astounding clarity. As it was, he was holding a dagger in his hand, having expected something far more sinister to be awaiting him outside.
Not Merlin, who was about as threatening as a wet cat.
“I didn’t even knock,” Merlin said instead of answering.
“I know.”
They continued to stare at each other.
“Well, goodnight,” Merlin said, awkwardly, and turned to leave. Arthur caught his arm.
“Nuh uh. You don’t get to show up in the middle of the night acting all weird and then just—leave.”
Merlin relented immediately, which was surprising. He exhaled, almost folding in on himself as he followed Arthur back into his chambers, and flopped down at the table.
“Came to make sure you were alright, is all,” he mumbled, not looking at Arthur. He was too focused on fidgeting with the hem of his sleepshirt. Arthur realized he’d never really seen Merlin in sleepclothes; whenever they were traveling, he tended to just sleep in variations on his usual theme.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Arthur demanded, perhaps a bit too harshly.
“I don’t know.”
Silence again. Arthur hated this. It was weird.
“Are you alright?” Arthur asked pointedly, intending to do the talking for both of them. “Have you gotten any sleep?”
“I…”
Merlin finally tilted his head upwards to look at him, and the pure weariness in face caught Arthur off guard. The blue eyes he had come to know so well looked distant and uncertain, more akin to those of a soldier after a terrible battle than a royal manservant.
“I keep having this dream,” Merlin said softly, “where something terrible happens to you. Something I could’ve stopped, and yet I fail. Every time.”
Arthur blinked. He didn’t know what to say to that.
(The truth was he did know exactly what to say to that, but he was having trouble convincing himself to actually, you know, say it.)
“I believe that’s called a nightmare, Merlin,” Arthur said dryly, which was not the thing he wanted to say. Merlin scoffed and rolled his eyes.
“Thank you for your infinite wisdom, o great Prince Arthur.”
“I get them too, you arse,” Arthur shot back. “About you.”
Merlin’s expression softened, though there was still something unreadable about it. “I suppose we’re in good company, then,” he said after a moment.
“Indeed.” Arthur was not going to do the uncomfortable silence thing again, so he continued. “Well, I’m going to try to sleep now. You’re welcome to sit there and watch me like some bizarre bird of prey or something, if it will give you peace.”
Merlin gave a tired laugh, and, to Arthur’s surprise, settled further into the chair like he might actually do it. “It might bore me to sleep, sure.”
Arthur snorted. “I should certainly hope watching me sleep is boring, else I might believe you a pervert.”
He crawled back into bed, wrapping the blankets tightly around his shoulders. Even with a fire in the hearth, it was bloody freezing.
“Will you at least offer your guard dog a blanket, your Royal Pratness?”
“I am not moving,” Arthur replied, voice muffled by his pillow. It wasn’t like Merlin didn’t know where the spare blankets were anyhow. In fact— “While you’re over there, grab me an extra. Tonight is bizarrely cold.”
His bed dipped with far more weight than that of an extra blanket, and he rolled over in surprise. Merlin was sitting there, glowering at him, and threw the blanket in his face.
“Hey!” Arthur cried, now muffled by Merlin’s paltry attempt at suffocation. He fought the blanket off and poked his head out of the thick fur, returning Merlin’s look. “Rude.”
Merlin rolled his eyes again, giving a hint of a smile as he moved to stand up. Arthur snagged him by the sleeve, letting his intrusive thoughts win with absolutely no hesitation. He blamed it on the sleepiness.
“You’re already here,” he said, and Merlin’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Might as well. It’s nothing we haven’t done while traveling.”
“Those are distinctly separate and unpleasant cots that give me back pain. This is your bed.”
“Which, as you’ve pointed out, is big enough for a herd of small horses.”
Merlin barked out a surprised laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever said that.”
“You definitely have. Anyways, goodnight,” Arthur announced, rolling back over and away from Merlin. His dignity had finally caught up to him, and he was beyond mortified.
A few moments later, Merlin shocked him by actually sliding under the heap of blankets next to him, giving a soft sigh of contentment that did something to Arthur’s insides. “Good lord. This is like sleeping on a fucking cloud.”
Arthur chuckled. Their backs touched.
“Now you understand why I’m so loath to wake up in the mornings.”
“No, that’s because you’re lazy and annoying and refuse to listen to anything I have to say.”
Arthur reached an arm over to swat Merlin’s shoulder, which just earned him a laugh in response.
“Okay, okay. Night, Arthur.”
Arthur tried to sleep then, he really did. But, like Merlin, he’d been awake in the first place because he kept dreaming about a gory end to Merlin’s life that he was unable to stop. He knew that people knew he cared for Merlin, and it had been used against him more than once. The thought that someone someday might actually succeed scared him to fucking death.
It was with that spike of fear and adrenaline that Arthur made the truly insane decision to roll over so he was facing Merlin again, watching his chest rise and fall in the firelight. Merlin hummed inquisitively.
“The guard dog thing only works if one of us is actually looking at the other,” Arthur murmured in response. Merlin huffed, and then, being the horrible little shit he was, inched backwards until Arthur had no choice but to put one arm around him and spoon him.
“Brat,” he muttered. Merlin huffed again.
“You invited me,” he retorted, voice thick with sleep.
Several moments passed, no longer in the awkward silence Arthur had hated but in something close to peace. He found his eyes could actually slip closed without a spike of panic, spurred onward by the warmth emanating from where Merlin was pressed against him.
“We can’t talk about this come morning,” Merlin whispered.
“No,” Arthur agreed, and was sad to do it. “But perhaps another night.”
“Yes. Another night.”
Arthur smiled, knowing no one would ever see it, and finally drifted off to sleep.
@merthurmicrofic | prompt: transformation | 399 words
Merlin readied his king's clothes, as he had done every morning for as far back as he cared to remember, even though he'd been the king's husband for longer than he'd been his servant. Behind him, in the bed they shared, Arthur was slow to wake.
Over the decades of peace Camelot had enjoyed under Arthur's rule, most tasks had lost their sense of urgency, including getting up in the morning. Merlin smiled a small, private smile, knowing that what he and Arthur shared behind closed doors was the one exception to that rule. Decades together, and their hands upon each other still felt urgent, desperate, and new.
The door to their chambers opened quietly and a servant appeared, carrying a tray laden with the best foods Camelot had to offer, and Merlin smiled at them as they set the tray upon the table and departed, nodding deferentially to the Court Sorcerer.
Arthur, perhaps, had been woken by the door closing, but Merlin knew it was more likely the tantalising scent of breakfast that had finally roused him. Arthur and his appetite! Merlin smiled softly at his King, who had, in his middle age, grown rather soft himself.
Gone was the angular physique Arthur had maintained in his youth through endless hours of training for battle, gradually replaced by gentler curves and beautifully rounded edges as the peace of the kingdom brought an end to battle, and lessened the need for such vigorous training.
Merlin, who was, himself, rather softer around the edges than he'd been in his youth, brought his King the clothes he had chosen for the day. He set them down beside Arthur, who now sat on the edge of their bed, plump belly rounding over his thighs in a way that made Merlin feel both intensely grateful for the peace of their kingdom which allowed his Arthur to transform into such a deliciously soft creature, and, although the thought felt far too young for his old body, rather breathless and weak at the knees.
Merlin ran his hands through Arthur's hair, stubbornly blond where Merlin's was quickly turning silver, and leaned in for a kiss. Arthur, waking fully now, wrapped still strong arms around his lover, gripping the soft flesh at Merlin's hips and sighing into the embrace.
Breakfast would wait; the king had something rather urgent to attend to, after all.
@merthurmicrofic for the prompt 'stars' | 737 words
They were seated under a giant oak when Arthur told Merlin Gwen and him broke up. It was a warm evening in September and with every hour that slipped by the buzzing of the bees and flies grew more quiet. But the crickets sure made up for it.
Merlin had not known how to handle the mixture of relief, sadness and guilt once Arthur informed him, head bowed while he played with a stick he found on the ground. So for a long time he said nothing, even though he felt himself, or an echo of his former self at least, become angry.
Had Arthur given it up because of Agravaine? Or did he once again decide Guinevere couldn't be trusted to choose for herself so he had made the choice for her? Claiming she deserved better?
All of these points had been subject of countless discussions between the servant and the king leading up to the courtship with Gwen. And while Merlin still thought all of them were mainly Arthur's insecurities and fear of opening up to people, he felt so tired.
Last night he had a fight with Gaius again, as the healer caught him slipping into their shared rooms in the middle of the night. He was covered in bruises and blood, though most of it wasn't his own.
Gaius scolded him, why hadn't he said anything? Where had he been? And where was the boy he once was?
Questions born of fear and desperation, Merlin knew that but what choice did he have? Pull all his friends with him into this darkness? No, he would pay the price of Arthur's protection and he would pay it alone, just as destiny intended. The king had told him countless times he needed to stop whining and just accept what needs to be done.
Still why did he feel so goddamn tired all the time?
By now the moon had taken over and the sun had dissappeared behind the horizon, leaving both of them underneath this blanket of stars while a slight breeze carried the faintest touch of autumn with it.
In the dark he felt better, safer, hidden from the scrutinizing looks of everyone.
The king sighed. Merlin coninued to rest his head on his knees. He was too exhausted to react, too exhausted to sleep.
"Merlin?" Arthur whispered.
He couldn't respond. He couldn't even move to acknowledge it. His body felt heavy, like the world was pressing down on him. So he answered with a hum.
"You can talk to me." The back of a hand came to rest against his own and this time he found the energy to turn his head.
In the dark he could only see the outlines of his king. And a hint of gold.
Arthur breathed out. "I'm here." And to stress his words the thumb brushed against Merlin’s wrist.
It was a clumsy attempt at consolation but that made it honest. It also made Merlin question how far Arthur was willing to go. Months ago he wouldn't have dared, he would have been too scared to let this part of him show even if it was only in the dark and just the two of them. But it barely mattered now anyways, didn't it? Every part of him was hurting no matter if Arthur rejected him or not. And maybe they would be able to ignore it afterwards, like when they looked into each others eyes and got so lost they found themselves staring at each others lips instead. They never talked about that either so...
Merlin looked at his king, staring into the spot where the light of the stars was mirrored by Arthur's eyes as he turned his hand around, palm facing Arthur's and lifted his finger enough to make contact. It was a request, a plea really but Merlin hoped Arthur didn't know the desperation the servant felt or at least felt something similarly.
Their hearts continues to beat and the crickets played their song but Merlin was frozen in place.
Stupid.
It was stupid.
His hand retreated again, shame burning inside his chest when Arthur's fingers curled around his wrist. Another request. This time to stay.
Another second passed before the grip loosened and the fingers finally slipped between Merlin's own.
They held onto each other for hours even when both of them lost the fight against the sleep their hands stayed intertwined.
