Arthur watches skilled hands prepare herbs he doesn’t know the names of; Clean them, chop them, grind them down to a pulp.
“Are you certain you know what you’re doing?”
Merlin answers with a sidelong glance – Arthur, please – and ties the poultice with the efficiency of someone who has done this a thousand times.
A sharp pain cuts through Arthur’s side, making him wince. “Ow… Those bandits have truly grown vicious.”
“Maybe you’ve just grown slow,” Merlin retorts cheekily as he dips the poultice in hot water and smiles. Arthur deflects the sudden fond flutter in his chest with a threat:
“Tell me, Merlin, are you aware of the various punishments in place for insulting the King?”
“Shh.”
“Now, you can’t just shush—”
His remark is cut short as Merlin shifts forward, suddenly only inches away. When did he get so close? And gods, when did he get so… Arthur ignores the rest of his thought, heart beating faster than he would admit. Must be the injury.
“Let me know if it feels too hot,” Merlin whispers as he carefully presses the poultice over broken skin. Arthur inhales sharply at the sensation.
“It’s… It feels…” Their eyes meet, and suddenly Arthur is far too aware of Merlin’s proximity, his broad shoulders, his warmth.
It does indeed feel too hot.
“...fine.” He exhales. “It feels fine. Good.”
Merlin smiles at him. Before Arthur has the chance to realize what’s happening, gentle fingers brush through his hair, softly tucking back a strand. Thrown, he opens his mouth — maybe to speak, maybe to breathe — but the moment is gone, his healer’s hands already busy securing the poultice with bandages.
“All done”, Merlin declares and starts clearing his work bench, but halts. “Except…”
“Except what?”
Merlin hesitates, then strides back and sets his hand over the bandage.
“Mínes léofan wund þú gehælst.” The incantation is muttered under his breath. There is a flash of gold, a warm tingle in Arthur’s side, and a look of wonder in his eyes.
-
“What does it mean?” Arthur asks later, pulling on his shirt.
