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Merlin swiftly side-stepped a large, sword-wielding man with a gasp before jogging to catch up with Arthur’s hasty stride as he led them through the training grounds. Contenders of all shapes and sizes and levels of savagery had already signed up for tomorrow’s contest and no doubt even more would arrive before the day was out.
It was unsettling to walk past them all, as if Arthur was saying look Merlin, our training sessions are nothing compared to what these men would do to you.
“It’s tradition, Merlin.” Arthur called over his shoulder. “The tournament’s been held every ten years for centuries. It’s nothing to worry about.”
Merlin winced as a brute of a man slammed another into the ground without breaking a sweat. “Tell me he can’t use that in the contest.”
“He can use what he likes. It’s an open tournament.”
And what a stupidly dangerous decision that was. Why Arthur would willingly put himself through this was maddening to him, and he would have said so, if he couldn’t already feel the prince laughing at his aversion. “What about the knight’s code?”
“Counts for nothing. The only rule is, there are no rules.” Arthur informed him nonchalantly as an axe cut through the air between them, stealing Merlin’s breath and pinning him where he stood. One step further and he would have lost his head to target practice.
“Yeah, you’re right. There’s nothing to worry about.” He muttered as he took stock of where exactly Arthur was leading them without a care in the world. Because clearly he didn’t have to worry about the dangers of walking right in front of the many sharp objects flying at speed towards the painted bullseyes, no one would dare endanger the prince. His servant on the other hand…
You’d think that these men would at least be smart enough to check their surroundings before throwing their weapons so recklessly, though one glance at the axe-thrower had him thinking otherwise. He was a brute of a man, the kind that could, and would, knock Merlin down with a single tap. And Merlin only had a second to notice not a single ounce of concern for others behind those smirking eyes, before something slammed into his chest, knocking his feet from under him and sending him tumbling onto the muddy ground below.
It happened so suddenly that his magic had no time to react, the warm glow under his skin fizzling away before it even had a chance to take shape. The busy chatter all around him became muffled in an instant as the cloudless sky swirled up above, the sunny blue draining away as a lifeless grey cast a shadow over everything, blurring the shapes that appeared in the corners of his fading vision and bleeding all energy from his body.
Hands pressing against him registered in his periphery for a mere moment before the shadow grew and grew and grew, leaving only a cold, dark nothingness in its wake.
With the number of tournaments and contests and melees that took place every year within Camelot, Arthur really thought his servant would have gotten better at not questioning the rules and traditions that accompanied each one. Better still, he would accept the fact that some people were simply brave enough to wield a sword against a fellow fighter. Bravery that his servant would likely never possess.
A hike through the grounds gave Arthur the perfect opportunity to survey the sizeable mix of opponents he could be facing in tomorrow’s contest. He was just considering which weapon to train with first when a series of gasps from behind slowed his pace and curiosity had him peeking over his shoulder to witness a kerfuffle of knights and competitors alike gathering in front of one of the straw target boards.
Arthur didn’t think too much of it. Injuries were common during this time and even Gaius was known to have more bandages prepped than usual to accommodate for the frequent visitors to his chambers. It couldn’t be helped with a contest like this, but it was always a shame. Arthur could only hope that it wasn’t serious enough to stop them competing– he knew what contests like this meant to those that travelled far and wide to participate.
Rushing forward to help, he noticed two men standing off to the side, one holding an axe; the other with his arms folded against his chest. Both just watching. There was something in their gaze that didn’t agree with Arthur, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it.
“Someone fetch the physician!” A voice called out from the centre of the crowd and Arthur watched one of his young knights sprint off towards the castle. He still hadn’t caught a glimpse of the injured man in between the wall of bodies blocking his view but it was obviously serious.
A path was cleared as he approached until only a familiar mop of blond curls was left in his way. Leon turned to look at him from where he was crouched on the ground, eyes widening as he failed to find the right words. “Sire…”
And then Arthur saw why. And his blood ran cold.
He’d seen injuries like this before. He’d inflicted injuries like this before. On bandits or thieves or any other manner of living thing that deemed to attack him and his knights on patrol. It was swift and easy and effective. An axe to the chest. Dead within seconds.
It wasn’t possible. Merlin had been right there. He’d been by Arthur’s side, prattling on about the tournament and its stupid lack of rules. And now he was—
The air around him turned thin and stale, catching in his throat as he struggled to take a breath, the buzz of noise around him fading into a disorientating hum. The sight of it made him sick but he couldn’t force his eyes away. The sharp metal glinting in the sun where it was embedded between his ribs, tunic already darkened by blood, face slack and body unmoving as if he had taken a midday nap in the middle of grounds.
He’d seen Merlin asleep before. This wasn’t sleep.
No, his servant was—
Arthur wasn’t sure when he’d lowered himself to the floor, but the early morning dew of the grass was cold as it seeped into the knees of his trousers.
His servant—
Leon was still trying to talk to him, but he couldn’t focus on anything the knight was saying. An uncomfortable warmth prickled at the base of his skull which was strange because the sun was nowhere near its peak and there had been a cool breeze only moments ago and the beads of sweat gathering there sent a chill down his spine which didn’t make any sense and mud was probably coating his trousers too now which was no good because they would need washing but that wasn’t possible because—
His servant was dead.
There was an axe in his chest and his servant was dead!
Arthur was glad to be kneeling because all other strength had fled his body, draining him in an instant, and his limbs were left numb and shaky as he turned to look behind him. He wanted to say something, to shout at the axe-less man, but the words wouldn’t come.
Maybe it was from the shock at seeing the state that Merlin was in. Maybe it was from the disbelief at the callous expression on the man’s face. No fear, not even an ounce of concern for what he’d done. Just an odd little smirk as if he was pleased with himself.
“—get him help.” Leon’s words finally filtered through, yanking Arthur’s focus back towards his servant because why would the boy need help, he was already dead. There was only one way to help him now and it was very much illegal within Camelot.
But there was something there in Leon’s eyes, worry and urgency and just a tiny slither of hope, and as Arthur looked back at his servant, he was suddenly flooded with it too. All blood seemed to have drained from the boy’s face and was definitely making its way out of his body, but the subtle rise and fall of his chest that Arthur had failed to notice before was undeniable.
Okay. So, his servant wasn’t dead. And for a brief moment, Arthur felt like he could breathe again.
Merlin suffered a rough awakening as they rushed him to the physician’s chambers and Arthur’s heart was still beating double-time from the horror at hearing his servant scream.
There was no way he could be carried without dislodging the axe so when a serving boy had come running across the grounds, stretcher in tow, everyone nearby had jumped into action. Many hands grabbed at his servant, rolling and lifting and moving him carefully onto the sheet, all willing to help regardless of their station compared to his. Leon volunteered himself to take one end while Arthur wordlessly took the other and they wasted no time in transporting Merlin across the grounds.
By the time they reached the chambers, Gaius already had a table cleared, an array of supplies prepared and was waiting anxiously to see the damage his ward had gotten himself into. The two men lowered Merlin – now bug-eyed and gasping in pain – down with ease, stepping back to allow the physician a closer look.
His servant was trembling now, movements clumsy as he tried to sit up and grab at the thing sticking out of him, his efforts stopped only by Gaius’ firm hands. There were streaks of tears running down Merlin’s cheeks as he tried desperately to watch Gaius’ every move, eyes roving frantically. Arthur had never seen Merlin in this state before; vulnerable, terrified, helpless, and it felt almost wrong to be there. Like he was intruding on a moment he was never meant to witness.
“Leon.” Arthur spoke, giving himself an excuse to turn away. “Those two men, the ones throwing the axes. Find them.”
Leon nodded in acceptance of his orders and went on his way, leaving Arthur to suffer the uncomfortably pained grunts of his servant as he watched the door close. Maybe it had all been an accident, maybe it wasn’t even those men that had been responsible, but he needed to get to the bottom of this and the self-satisfied look on their faces seemed like a good place to start.
“Arthur, I need you to hold him.” Gaius returned his attention to the table as he brought a bucket of water closer and began unravelling a cloth in preparation. “I’m going to take the axe out.”
Merlin seemed to whimper at the suggestion and as Arthur moved to the head of the table to clasp his shoulders, the reassuring pat he gave his servant did little to break through the surface of the boy’s fear. The second Gaius wrapped a hand around the handle and began to shift the blade, the pain that Merlin was feeling increased ten-fold. His jaw was clenched so tight that Arthur was sure he would have heard his teeth grinding into each other if it wasn’t drowned out by the near-muffled scream he was failing to keep contained.
It took a few tries, each one surely doing more damage than the last as Merlin bucked and jerked and thrashed involuntarily under Arthur’s grip, but eventually Gaius managed to free the axe from his chest, thick blood oozing instantly from the unsightly slash visible through his torn tunic. Gaius grabbed the material and ripped it further, unafraid to ruin the stained clothing, and began to wipe away the mess.
Once it was obvious that the blood wasn’t stopping, he grabbed another cloth to push tightly against the wound.
Arthur’s fingers were still pressing fresh bruises into Merlin’s shoulders despite the ordeal having pilfered any strength the boy had left. Panting heavily from the exertion, Merlin blinked slowly as his blank gaze found Arthur’s, staring but so clearly unseeing. He coughed weakly once, twice, body spasming slightly under Arthur’s hands as he struggled to find the energy to clear his throat, and on the third time a sputter of red coated his lips.
“Gaius.” Arthur’s voice grew panicky at the sight of it. He had witnessed a number of illnesses or injuries in the past that caused a man to cough blood. None were good.
Gaius hesitated, peeking under the bandage with a grimace before resuming pressure. He kept his eyes on his ward as he spoke carefully. “The blade must have hit something important inside.”
“Well, can you fix it?” Arthur asked urgently, uneasiness growing as awaited an answer. The physician still hadn’t looked at him. “Gaius?”
Another cough from below.
A small shake of the man’s head had Arthur finally releasing his grip, his hands suddenly too numb to maintain it.
Things like this shouldn’t be allowed to happen so suddenly. The world should at least give some sort of sign or warning or something. Barely an hour ago his servant was complaining about the stupidity of the tournament and the number of unnecessary deaths it caused and now…
He should be out training, perfecting his footwork or the timing of his sword strokes, and yet the tournament could not be further from Arthur’s mind, except for the irony of Merlin’s comment still hanging in the air. The contest hadn’t officially started yet and already someone was left dying because of it.
Arthur still wasn’t sure who Gwen had heard the news from. She may had said, and he may not have listened, but what mattered most was that she was here, now, wiping Merlin’s brow and making sure his blankets are tucked in tight. Doing more for Merlin than Arthur had done.
Why on earth had they been walking through the middle of the training grounds? He genuinely could not remember. Did he choose that route on purpose or had he just not noticed the dangerous path they had been walking?
A pitifully weak moan from the bed snatched his attention away from his thoughts as he waited impatiently for Merlin to open his eyes – something that had yet to happen since the agonising removal of the axe. Gwen followed suit, just as eager, as she leant forward in her chair and rested a gentle hand on Merlin’s arm, thumb rubbing back and forth in an attempt to coax him back to consciousness.
It didn’t work. Nothing worked. Not the bandage wrapped tightly around Merlin’s torso that had allowed a spot of red to bleed through the last time he’d caught a glimpse of it. Not even Sir Leon’s attempt at tracking down the two men that Arthur believed to be responsible for this mess. They were long gone from the training field, apparently, by the time Leon had returned there, but he had at least discovered that they had signed up to the tournament. Arthur would deal with them tomorrow; whether in or out of the arena, he hadn’t decided.
The water sloshed quietly in the bucket as Gwen squeezed the excess from the cloth and continued tending to Merlin’s fever, shushing the boy gently with each new pained sound he made. It wasn’t going to make a difference in the end, they both knew that, but at least it felt like she was helping. And maybe Arthur could help too, just not here.
Uncrossing his arms and pushing himself away from the wall, he excused himself from the room.
Gaius allowed a glance in his direction as he closed the bedroom door behind him, but it was clear that the old man would not be distracted from his work. It wasn’t a cure – whatever this potion was that he was brewing – but it would help. That’s what Gaius had told them.
And well, quite frankly, what use was a potion if it wasn’t a cure. And what use was his title if he couldn’t break a few rules every now and then.
“Gaius.” He said, keeping his voice low as he approached the table. “Is there nothing we can do?”
Gaius returned the vial he had been swirling to the table. He had already been through this with them and none of them really wanted to voice it again. “Sire…”
“Nothing—" Arthur interrupted before the physician could give him the sad eyes and unwanted spiel about making Merlin comfortable. He glanced at the door before continuing. He knew the dangers of what he was about to ask, and he didn’t need any intruders eavesdropping. “Nothing…that my father might disapprove of?”
Gaius hesitated and Arthur could see that the man knew exactly what he was asking. Maybe he’d even considered it himself. And who was Arthur to judge him if it was going to save someone’s life. He moved around the table to stand next to the man, words even quieter as he spoke again.
“I know I’m asking a lot. But if there’s anything…”
Gaius’ eyes were also drawn to the door. The tension in the air was thick. Just thinking about something like this could get a man killed.
“Arthur.” He didn’t need to say anymore. The prince’s name was warning enough.
And Arthur felt like a child, begging his father for five more minutes of sword practice, desperation bleeding into his voice. “I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“I can’t… Even if I wanted to.” The words were pointed; the meaning clear. After years of not using magic, Gaius couldn’t heal a wound like Merlin’s anymore. If he ever could.
And there went Arthur’s last hope.
Arthur’s hand cradled the back of Merlin’s head with great care as he helped the boy drink Gaius’ remedy. Tiny tremors ran through Merlin’s body as he tried to do it himself, but his arms barely had the strength to do more than shift against the bed. He had grown deathly pale in the hour since they had moved him to his own room and his breath had taken on a worryingly raspy wheeze. But at least he was awake, tired eyes watching as Arthur brought the vial to his lips.
Arthur had the urge to grumble about how lazy his servant was being, how a prince shouldn’t be expected to do all the work for him. Anything to make light of the situation and avoid the truth of the inevitable. And if it incited a tut from Gwen or an eyeroll from Merlin, then all the better.
But he couldn’t bring himself to break the silence of the room.
They should count themselves lucky. A wound like this should have killed him instantly and it was a miracle that Merlin had lasted this long. But as Arthur returned Merlin’s head to rest against the pillow, he wondered if this maybe was the crueller of the two outcomes. After years of fighting alongside the knights, facing countless injuries and witnessing countless more, he was all too aware that sometimes a quick death was kinder.
But never easy.
From her spot on the other side of the bed, Gwen resumed her fever-quelling duties, damp cloth coming up to wipe away the evidence of Merlin’s latest exertion. She bit her cheek in a desperate effort at holding back a fresh wave of tears, but her weak attempt at a reassuring smile gave away everything she was feeling.
Arthur ran a hand through his hair as he watched them both with a growing unease, knowing for a fact that –
“This is my fault.” He whispered, drawing two pairs of eyes towards him with his unintentional confession. He locked eyes with the boy in the bed, hating that it had come to this, but knowing that he didn’t have long left to say what needed to be said. “I’m sorry.”
Merlin’s tongue poked out to wet his lips, allowing a few difficult breaths to take priority before he could speak. The corner of his mouth pulled into as much of a smirk as he could manage.
“Are you admitting that I was right about the tournament?”
A tut from Gwen.
An eyeroll from Arthur.
All tension rushed away from the room and, for just one calm moment, everything felt normal.
“I think you’re becoming delirious, Merlin.” Arthur retorted as he raised an eyebrow and failed to hide a smile. “Which is probably just a ploy to get Gwen to dote on you some more.”
“Hey.” Gwen spoke softly as she joined in with the teasing. She dunked her cloth in the bucket once again as if proving her point. “I don’t need an excuse. I do it because I’m a good friend.”
Arthur spluttered at the disrespect, noting with approval that it brought a twinkle to Merlin’s eye.
“That’s not hard when—” Merlin coughed, frowning as the words lodged in his throat.
Gwen replaced the cloth with a nearby cup in an instant. “Here, have some water.”
But Merlin waved her off. He tried to speak again, only to end up grimacing as the act seemed to physically pain him, and Arthur could see the moment he began to panic. His breathing became tight and rasping and each cough was worse than the last, until whatever was stuck came spurting out of his mouth with alarming viscosity.
Arthur was on his feet before his mind could even register what was happening, heart hammering against his ribs at the sight of all the blood. Gwen was out of the door in a flash, frantically crying for Gaius.
Beside vigils and the mopping of brows was something they could handle. This was so far out of their skillset.
Merlin’s eyes were wide as he struggled to breathe, to move, to do anything more than cough, cough, cough. A spray of blood coated his chin and the front of his tunic, and as soon as Arthur realised that he was choking on the rest, his feet unstuck themselves from the floor. He grabbed Merlin’s shoulder and pulled him onto his side in one swift, indelicate and ungraceful motion, but it served its purpose as all the goop that was trapped was abruptly expelled across Merlin’s pillow and over the side of the bed, thick droplets clinging to his lips as he desperately gasped for air. His face scrunched up in pain as this new position put pressure on his wound.
Between one blink and the next, Gwen had returned to the room, Gaius in tow. They immediately jumped into action as Gaius took his place at Merlin’s back, rubbing it firmly as he encouraged him to breathe, while Gwen cleared as much of the blood away as she could.
Arthur’s hand trembled against the shoulder he was still clinging onto, but he couldn’t tell if it was Merlin or himself that the tremor was coming from. Merlin’s terrified gaze locked onto Arthur’s, almost begging him to make it stop. And as his servant lay there, now barely clinging onto enough strength to stay awake, Arthur had never felt more helpless.
Merlin crawled his way back to awareness, pushing past the hazy exhaustion that was determined to keep him buried. Everything felt so heavy; his hands, his head, even his chest where a dull sort of throbbing was keeping him pressed against the bed. The ache was very real and yet strangely numb, like his body acknowledged its presence but was too tired to truly feel it. A flash of memories hit without warning – sunlight bouncing off metal as it raced towards him; a beige ceiling rushing overhead as the world beneath shuddered and shook; a spray of red coating his pillow – and it took one final push to blink his eyes open and force the images away.
The late afternoon sun still peaked through his window, casting a golden glow over the only other occupant in the room. Merlin’s vision was still a little unfocused, yet he was pretty certain that the prince was currently fast asleep in his chair. Arms crossed and chin resting firmly on his chest, Arthur didn’t look like he was waking up anytime soon and with no sign of Gwen or Gaius, this was the first time Merlin had been left alone since this morning. Or at least, the first time he had been awake to notice.
Maybe it was a good thing; an empty bedside was usually a sign that he was out of danger. Or maybe they couldn’t stand to be there any longer; watching; waiting for the inevitable.
He exhaled painfully, breath hitching as he swallowed back a sob that came out of nowhere.
This couldn’t be it. He didn’t want this to be it. He still had a destiny to fulfil and friends to be there for and a life to live. Gaius hadn’t finished training him yet and his mother— god his mother. He couldn’t leave her like this, not without saying goodbye; not like his father did.
A tear rolled down the side of his face to land in the crook of his ear and if he had the strength to wipe it away, he would have. But for what he was about to do, he had none to spare.
There was a dryness to Merlin’s mouth that he hadn’t noticed before and as he tried to speak, the sound remained trapped in his throat. He swallowed hard, ignoring the stale taste coating his tongue, and tried again.
“Ic þe—.”
The words were croaky and faint, barely making themselves known as cracked lips formed around them.
“Ic þe þurhhæle—.”
His hands twitched against the bed; palms face up and fingers curled as he called upon the power that had burrowed itself deep in his chest.
“Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare.”
The harder he tried, the harder his body worked to drag his magic to the surface, head tipping back against the pillow as his whole body pulled itself taut.
“Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare.”
He could practically see the muted gold colouring the edges of his eyes as the ceiling twisted messily above.
“Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare.”
The glow fizzled inside him, stronger now, blooming from his centre and stretching out to his shoulders to his knees to his ears to his fingertips, pulling tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter until it snapped.
Arthur woke with a start, body jolting into awareness as it took a second to remember where he was.
The boy in the bed looked even worse than before and Arthur scolded himself for falling asleep. For wasting time. He must have been tired though, falling asleep in a chair, mid-afternoon, was so unlike him. He rubbed at his eyes probably harder than required and then had to blink away the spots that it caused.
He needed to stretch his legs, to shake this lethargy from his body.
The chair creaked as he stood but the boy in the bed didn’t wake, the sight of him still making Arthur’s stomach twist. They had done their best to clear away the blood, but pale splotches still stained the pillow and the neck of his shirt. A stark reminder that they could try and hide it as much as they wanted but this injury wasn’t going away.
He took himself away from the bed and over to Merlin’s desk and the small window above it – if you could call it that. A window, that is. It was a pitiful thing really; no more than a tiny square carved into the wall, nothing like the full-length panes adorning Arthur’s own bedroom.
Just another stark difference between the two lives that they lived. Merlin had derided him many a time before about how Arthur was too dim-witted and ignorant to comprehend the life of luxury that his title afforded him compared to some of those that he governed.
But spending time in this room, he couldn’t help but notice the similarities more than the differences. How the window allowed Merlin to overlook the courtyard, much like Arthur’s did; how his desk was covered in scribbled pages and half-opened books, how his bed clothes were still piled in the corner, haphazardly thrown there after dressing this morning.
He'd been in Merlin’s room many times in the past, whether it be to drag him out of bed after sleeping in too late or to clear him of hiding intruders. But somehow, he’d never seen it like this before.
There was a small wooden object sitting on the desk, wedged between two thickly bound books, and as Arthur plucked it free, he realised what it was. A dragon, beautifully carved and small enough to sit in the palm of his hand. He had never seen it before, he didn’t even know where Merlin could have gotten it from, but it looked delicate, personal. Maybe it was from his mother?
Peeking out of the window, he realised just how late in the day it was. People were still milling around but the bustle of the morning had died down as the late-afternoon light moved to the other side of the castle. He was surprised that no-one had been sent to find him to fulfil some duty or other that he had forgotten about, but the sound of swords still clashing in the distance gave him his answer.
Today, all other responsibilities were excused so that he could focus on training. Last minute preparations for a tournament that no longer seemed important. Because loathe to admit it, Merlin was right; the deaths this contest caused were pointless. They didn’t serve any greater good, they didn’t bring any glory. They just left people lying in the dirt with a sword to their stomach or an axe to their chest—
The wooden dragon slipped from his fingertips and clattered against the desk as Arthur finally worked out what had been nagging at the back of his mind since he woke.
No groans of discomfort, no wheezy inhales. Nothing.
The world around him slowed as he turned to face the bed, spine tingling as his whole body grew numb with a twisted sense of realisation. The paleness, the stillness, the silence. The rise and fall of Merlin’s chest that had been stuttering all day had finally ceased entirely, and Arthur’s was threatening to follow.
How long had been like this?
How the hell had Arthur allowed himself to fall asleep!
“Merlin?” The name slipped out in a whisper despite knowing it would go unanswered.
Tentatively, he moved closer to the bed, hand reaching out but not quite wanting to make contact. Not wanting to confirm what his eyes were telling him to be true.
That his servant— his friend was gone.
He felt sick, insides churning and eyes frantically finding the bucket nearby should he need to make a run for it.
They knew this was coming. Ever since this morning, they had known that this was always going to be the outcome, but a part of Arthur— some miniscule, make-believe part of Arthur – had convinced himself that Merlin would survive somehow. His armour-less, weapon-less servant that always seemed to come out of every patrol and dangerous encounter unscathed.
So, this couldn’t be happening.
Because he had been wrong this morning! Out on the grounds, he had been certain that Merlin was dead, that the boy lying on the dirt had succumbed instantly to the weapon sticking horribly out of him. But he’d been wrong!
And maybe he was again. Maybe—
Maybe he just needed someone else to check instead.
He stumbled to the door, hand blinding reaching for the handle as he found it impossible to draw his eyes away from the figure in the bed. He missed a few times, fingers knocking the wood instead before he succeeded in pulling the door open.
Gaius was sitting at his desk, reading glasses perched upon his nose as he flicked through one of the many books in his possession. He was so engrossed in his research that it took a moment for him to notice Arthur hovering awkwardly at the bottom of the steps.
“Arthur?” Gaius peered over, removing his glasses to get a proper look at the prince.
And Arthur tried to reply, he really did. But no sound would leave his gaping mouth, his head shaking slightly as he failed to find the words. He pointed towards Merlin’s room but noticed that even his hand was shaking too.
Gaius’ chair scraped against the floor as he pushed away from his desk, resting his glasses in the crease of the open pages. His brows pulled together as he stepped towards Arthur, movements hurried as if he could sense that something was very wrong. “What is it?”
“Merlin—” Arthur murmured as he glanced over his shoulder towards the bedroom. Maybe it was cowardly, but he couldn’t bring himself to look Gaius in the eye. He couldn’t bear to see the moment the man realised what he was trying to say. “I think he’s—”
His voice broke. His body physically unable to say anymore. But Gaius understood, of course, because like Arthur, he too had been waiting all day for inevitable. He squeezed Arthur’s arm in understanding on his way up to the stairs and wordlessly pushed open the door.
Arthur swallowed hard as he listened to Gaius shuffle across the floor, desperately hoping to hear some sort of reassurance that he had been wrong.
But there was nothing.
He turned and entered the room in time to see Gaius’ head lift from the boy’s unmoving chest where he had been listening for a heartbeat, and he waited for a sign that everything was okay. But Gaius simply lowered himself into the chair and bowed his head in anguish.
So, it really was true.
Leaning heavily against the wall, Arthur felt sick all over again; palms sweating as he forced a shaky breath out through his mouth. All day he had been sitting here, but the moment that Merlin had gone, Arthur hadn’t even been awake to say goodbye.
And Gwen! She was somewhere in the castle right now with no idea that the worst had finally happened. She’d reluctantly left not too long ago to tend to Morgana with a promise that she would return as soon as possible, completely unaware that she was already too late. This was going to devastate her.
A rush of emotions swept over Arthur so abruptly that it buckled his knees and almost sent him sliding down the wall. Anger, confusion, grief, sorrow slammed into him from all directions; at the men who had caused this, at Merlin for leaving them, at himself for not doing more. He pressed a hand against his own chest, feeling the frantic beating of his heart beneath his palm and once again he wondered if he was joining his servant on the one-way trip.
And then—
A tiny gasp sounded from the bed. Followed by a hearty one from Gaius as the man scrambled to his feet.
“Merlin?” He asked, leaning over the boy and raising Arthur’s hopes far too high for his liking.
Arthur’s hands felt numb as he used the wall for support, pushing himself upright and over to the bed. Merlin was dead— he’d seen it, Gaius had confirmed it, so what on earth was going on.
Reaching Gaius side, he peered over his shoulder and, not for the first time today, felt his mind swim with confusion. Because peering back at him were two tired eyes. Tired, yet open!
Merlin’s bewildered gaze swept slowly across them both, eyelids fluttering as he forced himself to stay awake. Cheeks, which mere moments ago had held the ghastly pallor of a dead man, were already gaining a pinch of colour and breath that had ceased entirely was growing stronger by the minute.
This was impossible.
Arthur stumbled around to the other side of the bed and followed Gaius’ lead in gently holding down the boy as he rather stupidly attempted to push himself upright. Arthur put it down to his disorientation after his body’s sudden realisation of being not dead, and as Merlin’s hand clutched at his chest with a groan, he couldn’t help but give a very disapproving glower.
“Don’t move, Merlin.” Gaius warned him, lifting his tunic and peeling back the bandage to take a peek at the wound while Arthur maintained his hold on Merlin’s shoulder.
Merlin couldn’t quite work out what to focus on, eyes darting between the two of them whilst simultaneously trying to get a look at the state his chest was in. “What’s going on?”
You were dead, is what’s going on, Arthur wanted to say. You weren’t moving or talking or breathing and Gaius and I had to stand here and know what your dead body would look like.
But he said nothing. Because what could he say?
Because there Merlin was, awake; alive; talking without the sickening accompaniment of blood coating his lips. And from a glance at the exposed wound— healing.
The gash was still there of course, the skin still bruised and puckered and completely out of place against Merlin’s chest, yet it was noticeably less swollen, less deadly.
Arthur tore his eyes away for a moment to look over at Gaius, because there was only one real explanation for how Merlin was no longer on death’s door, and it was very much illegal in Camelot. Although, the way Gaius was still staring down at Merlin with confusion and awe and a slight hint of something that Arthur couldn’t quite decipher, told him that there was something more to the story.
By law, he should be dragging Gaius out of here to face the judgement of his father and the other members of the council. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Because he’d asked for this. He’d begged the physician to do something and clearly, despite his denial earlier, he had.
And Arthur had no desire to take it back. The fear he’d felt only moments ago was still buzzing around uncomfortably in his chest, and he tried to push past it because his servant was alive and smiling tiredly up at him, and Arthur wouldn’t have it any other way.
And as Gaius rebandaged the wound with gentle hands and a quiet sight of relief, Arthur vowed that he would keep what happened this afternoon a secret. And tomorrow, he would win the tournament. And if two competitors happened to die during the fight, then so be it.