@merthurmicrofic
Word Count: 802
Prompt: Burn
The crashing of underbrush had Merlin's senses on alert, half a spell already forming in his head as he whipped round to face the interloper.
Familiar shoulders halted against the bark of a larger trunk, and Merlin was on him in seconds, his hands flying over exposed skin in search of the cause for his heavy footing.
"Arthur?"
His voice held a wavering note as his eyes came to test on the darkened fabric cinched around one forearm.
"What the hell happened?"
Arthur shook his head, but he let the taller man take the burden of his sword and cape, and followed him with dragging heels to sit upon the fireside log and have his armour removed.
His manservant's touch was practiced and efficient, but even Arthur noticed the gentling of his fingertips when they returned to his arm. Gingerly, he peeled back the sodden, bloodied cloth himself.
Merlin's startled inhalation told him it did indeed look as bad as it had before. Night-blue eyes rose questioningly to his, and he felt the fight, the burden of it all, the expectations, all fade from his shoulders.
"The boy." he answered quietly, his voice thick with emotions he normally hid away, "From the encampment yesterday."
Merlin dropped his gaze as he began the task of tending to the ugly burn. It wound far up the Prince's arm, like a snake with its fat head resting on his wrist, tail under his bicep.
The skin was red and black and oozing, and Merlin tutted disapproval under his breath as he cleaned the scorched skin.
The silence in their tiny clearing was brittle. As if a breeze could shatter it, and drive the shards under his skin. Arthur wrapped his fingers around Merlin's wrist to halt his work, and stayed that way until his friend would meet his eye again.
"He lives, Merlin, if that's what worries you."
Merlin looked completely neutral, his face blank and his dark eyes evading him even as they stared at him. Part of him might have thought he was wrong, had he not spent nigh on every day of five years looking at the scrawny man. The Merlin he was sure he knew would care. And care deeply, especially for a child.
"Am I to understand that was your doing?" the servant spoke eventually, gaze grazing Arthur's mottled flesh, "Or did he simply get away from you, Sire?"
Arthur flinched, but Merlin's pale face remained impassive. Too impassive. There, in the corners of his eyes, almost like a glittering; hope.
"It seemed their sighting of us yesterday hastened them to action. Harbouring a sorcerer would earn them the pyre from my Father themselves."
Merlin's voice was quiet and sounded older than his years when he sighed.
"They chose to burn him rather than risk Uther's attention."
Arthur ran his free hand over his face. Merlin's fingers were cool with salve and a fresh bandage. His touch lingered, fiddling with the knots as a poor cover as he took his time choosing his next words.
Arthur had long since noticed this habit. Not stalling for thought, or even to find how most respectfully to address him. But a heavily debated and careful choice of words.
"What will happen to him, now?"
"Word may well reach my father. Maybe even before we return. It... Wouldn't be wise of me to neglect to tell him myself."
Merlin exhaled slowly.
"He won't be pleased that you saved a sorcerer."
His hand slipped away from Arthur's arm at last, his voice thin and secretive. His eyes seemed to delay before they flickered up to his face once more.
"There was no real evidence of sorcery. And without the lad in cuffs, I can't say for sure we'll ever really know."
Merlin stared at him.
"And the others? Who saw what we saw?"
Arthur raised one perfect eyebrow, and Merlin's chest eased.
"I don't recall seeing anything unusual."
Merlin tucked his head as though acquiescing to an order, but his bitten lip and stifled smile gave him away anyway.
Arthur tousled his dark hair as he stood, setting out their bedrolls and dictating what he wanted of their provisions in the pot over the fire. He teased the clumsier man, playfully warning him of the heat of the flames.
Where once the joke would have spiked fear in the warlock's ribcage, now it merely caused him to fondly eye his Prince beside him as he served him, and enquire after his latest wound.
It was Arthur who kicked dirt over the dying embers as they readied to turn in for the night, suffocating the fire and stamping over the mound for good measure.
Merlin fell asleep still pondering whether the glance shot his way from the vanquished fire was as meaningful as he hoped.
