Archive of Our Own ^beta

I'm a sorcerer, Arthur.

The words had rattled around in Arthur's head; still rattle a day later, after almost twenty-four hours of silence. They’re sat around a fire that Merlin has made, manually, with human hands and human chopping and human sweat. Human exhaustion. Merlin tends it with a stick, prodding the heavier logs to ignite amid the kindling. Arthur scoffs.

Merlin pokes at a branch, glances over briefly. "Yes?" 

Despite it all, Merlin still hasn't returned to his honorifics. No "yes, Sire ," no "My Lord." Arthur feels it sharply, panging, a close cousin to the wound that slowly oozes pus and blood at his side. He feels stupid under his chainmail, stripped of his crown and left to rot. Merlin doesn’t look at him, never trusted him , stares instead absently into the flames. Arthur feels, angrily, the end. [He senses now what he probably should’ve been accustomed to, but instead impacts him freshly, repeatedly; there is nothing that he can do now to vindicate the seething emptiness in his chest. Here, in this glade, Arthur is powerless, trapped with a liar.] 

The day that was once cloudy is now teal, darkening, carrying them happily towards the next day, towards their last day. Merlin stokes the fire again before sitting pensively at the foot of his own bedroll. Arthur juts out his chin in an act of defiance. 

"All that power,” he taunts, “and you still can't save me."

It bites, Arthur sees it does. Merlin winces, barely, tries to hide it. Despite himself, his dark head shrinks further towards the fire, away from the heap that is Arthur's body and shoved-aside blankets. Arthur smiles to himself, hopes his teeth glimmer white in the flickering light. Merlin isn't looking, but he hopes he does, hopes Merlin sees a wolf where he lays. A predator with sharp claws and sharper fangs.

"I can."

Merlin’s words are small and Arthur notes the bend of his head, stiffer now as he picks up his switch again, nudging the underside of a log. He watches as Merlin forces himself to believe his own words, forces himself to turn Arthur’s vitriolic accusation into a question. It's the only real counter to his attack, Arthur supposes. The only answer that could possibly neutralize, disarm. The only answer that could possibly hope to ignore the spikes and talons growing steadily from all angles in Arthur's mind. 

"You're useless."

Arthur is grinning now, baring his teeth. He's not totally aware of his expressions, just as he's unaware of his body, numb and immobile and helpless. He watches as Merlin cringes, bowing his spine as if Arthur's words were a heavy boulder pressing down, down, down. 

"I-" Merlin starts loudly, stops, cuts himself off. His voice sounds glorious, almost musical. A single color, the kind of resonance that only comes with passion and suffering. Arthur loves this, loves watching him hurt. He wonders if Merlin has ever felt betrayal. 

Merlin's jaw works, his hands shake. The stick lodges itself into the flame, catches, ignites. Merlin shoves the stick into the fire and pulls back, grasping his hands in the grass for something else to hold onto. Something else to break. 

Arthur decides to prod. Leisure, he's full of it. A keen satisfaction, Arthur feels comfortable despite his broken body and broken heart. He lets a beat pass, two. 

"What?" he jeers. "What were you going to say?"

Merlin hasn’t met Arthur’s gaze since they first started talking, choosing instead to stare fixedly into the fire. Arthur watches a tremor pass through Merlin's hunched shoulders. His head drops down. If Arthur blurs his eyes, he can pretend Merlin has no head at all. Maybe Merlin is just a stump, a chunk of wood. Maybe Merlin never happened. Mean Arthur , Arthur thinks, chides in Merlin's voice. He wonders if this is what runs through Merlin's head, now. Mean, mean Arthur.  

Tense moments of deliberation pass before Merlin finally opens his mouth. Arthur can’t wait, giddy with the need for violence. Goading. Arthur hears the movement of saliva and the working of his throat. He hears the venom before it reaches Merlin's mouth, can see it running blue and cold up his windpipe and pooling behind his teeth. When he speaks, his voice is clear and low. Arthur imagines his eyes, imagines the dark dark anger that would turn blue black. Arthur imagines a furrowed brow, a forward tilt of the chin. Maybe his nostrils would flare, Arthur ponders. Maybe his teeth would grind. Arthur imagines his eyes again, probably dark and shining in the firelight. Maybe they wouldn't be dark. Maybe they'd be gold. 

"I hate you." Merlin spits it out, projects as far as he can without shouting, without getting up and saying it to his face. It’s everything that Arthur wanted, and he feels his satisfaction radiant like he’s laying on a bed of melted gold. It sits with him until his brain catches up, until he recognizes — until no, God no, not yet, maybe not ever, because Merlin’s voice breaks on the very last syllable.

It's a subtle thing. It takes Arthur by surprise, the vocal slip that looses such a horrible, unfamiliar emotion into him, sics it high into his throat. It’s only an intonation, a suggestion of a sound. Yet Arthur has lost his wolf suit, can't find it in his blankets, can't find his weapons. Arthur watches, feels , as a line tracks its way down the side of Merlin's face. 

"I-" Arthur can't even start before he closes his mouth, opens it, can't say anything. Watches dumbly as a small noise wrenches itself from his throat, through his open mouth. He wasn't even aware he could do that. 

Arthur feels the moment Merlin cranes his neck, the moment Merlin mechanically rearranges his body parts until his eyes bear into Arthur's. Merlin's cheeks are red, eyes wet with tears and Merlin is angry , but Arthur's not sure if it's anger and Arthur thinks now that he's crying too, maybe has been since Merlin last spoke. 

"I-" Merlin's voice cracks again but he continues, determined, closing his eyes as if to focus on the words, as if to guide them to fruition. "I hate you."  

Arthur is openly crying now, sniveling quietly in the darkness. He feels completely and utterly naked. He leans back against the tree, against the blankets and makeshift cushions, letting his chin fall into his neck. Arthur feels like a lover, like a father, like a child. He hangs onto Merlin's renewed gaze like a lifeline. 

"I hate you," Merlin repeats, quiet now and tantric, absent, as if it's the only thing he can say. His blue eyes glisten blackly in the uneven light. "I hate you." Merlin's eyes still hold his own, as if he's holding his hand. Tenderly stroking his palm, massaging in creams before sending Arthur to bed. "I hate you." Polishing his armor, bathing him, dressing him. "I hate you." 

Arthur does break then, lets out a noisy sob and brings a weak hand to his face. Merlin brings himself to his feet, stumbles a little as he gingerly steps over stones and twigs to reach Arthur's makeshift cot. He's barefoot, Arthur notices. 

"I hate you." Merlin's voice is barely a whisper now, just a hint of a noise. Arthur isn't looking anymore, he stares desperately into the fire and he feels Merlin's eyes, above him, still stupidly reaching for his own. 

He hears a thump on the ground beside him. A warmth to his left, a nudge, a rustling of padding. He feels a limb, an arm probably, delicately move his head, settle around his shoulders. It's only when he feels a strong frame nestle tightly against his side that Arthur turns his head, burying his face in soft fabric and pressing his tears into the warm folds of Merlin's linen. 

"I hate you." Merlin's words are choked, and Arthur feels trembling fingers smooth his hair, a trembling arm grip him tighter. Arthur feels the blankets by his feet roll and unravel, and immediately cranes his neck to see the flash of gold in his eyes before Merlin stops, releases the furs. "Sorry," Merlin mumbles, muted by their proximity. 

Arthur is braver, now, in this foreign blurry world. He doesn't respond, continues to stare until Merlin gets uncomfortable. Until Merlin tries again. 

Arthur has never felt more vulnerable in his life. Not with his father. Not with Guinevere. He has never been cradled, never been held. His chin rests on Merlin's ribs, near his sternum. He feels the beating of Merlin's heart. At this distance, he breathes Merlin's air.

Merlin's eyes meet his again, questioning and prodding. Arthur's not sure he could respond if he tries. He just keeps staring. He's not sure which one of them is in control right now, if there is a control. Merlin reaches his fingers and settles on stroking his head again, fingers probing into the dips in his scalp. Arthur diverts his eyes, and something like dissatisfaction rises in his gut. Again, he looks. 

"I'm cold."

Merlin raises an eyebrow, his fingers stutter almost imperceptibly in his hair. "Get up and get the blankets, then." 

It's a challenge Merlin doesn't want him to take, not really. Arthur knows this, knows Merlin is hiding, knows Merlin hopes they can just forget that he used his magic, that he has magic, that he lied. 

"You get them."  Stubbornness comes easy to Arthur. 

Merlin's brow twitches, his cheeks flush as he shrugs. "Alright."

He makes to get up, begins to heave his body away from the mat before Arthur stops him, "No," 

It's hard to move, Arthur can feel that now. Can feel the dull ache of the poisoned sword, can make contact with the pain he's in. It surprises him how much energy it takes to grab onto Merlin's body. Merlin sinks back into the bedroll, avoiding Arthur's eyes. "No. Get it-" Arthur stops, trails off, twitching his fingers instead in approximation. It's hard to say out loud.

Merlin watches his fingers, keeps watching them even when Arthur stops moving them. "I don't know what you mean." 

Arthur sighs, pressing his nose into Merlin's tunic. He waits for a minute, just breathing in the smell of Merlin. Reveling in how comfortable he feels, how he even dares to ask this. It’s almost funny; he probably will laugh, or he hopes he will, when he thinks back on this later; though that thought leads him to later, later which may not come, not ever. He purges that thought, pushes it aside, and nestles his nose softly into Merlin’s body. He inhales and looks up, finally, and there's something in Merlin's eyes now that's so fierce, so passionate that Arthur doesn't even need to finish his sentence, "Get the blankets with your ma-," before the furs are swaddling them both, heavy and protective. 

Arthur watches his eyes turn from gold to blue, and thinks of the flipping of a coin. Reflective in the sun. A glittering piece of gold under Geoffrey of Monmouth's appraising torch. A shining pearl dropped from a noblewoman and presented to Arthur impishly, by a dimpled Merlin, who'd found it in the mud that day during a rainstorm. "Can I keep it?" He'd asked, grinning, not really asking but provoking, inciting. Arthur's nose had scrunched up in a scowl and he lunged for the pearl, chasing a snickering Merlin out of the castle and into the lower town until they'd forgotten about it, the pearl abandoned in a puddle, or the river, or the unsuspecting back pocket of a townsman.

"Thank you," Arthur murmurs, letting his eyes close as he rests his cheek back on Merlin's chest. Merlin makes an indecipherable noise in response, subtly cradling Arthur's head to his body, clutching a warm hand on the back of his neck. Merlin is still confused, he knows. Still doesn't have closure. Tonight, though, that's alright. Arthur hears Merlin shift as he wipes his nose on his sleeve, adjusts the edge of the blanket.

"Merl’n?"

"Yeah?" 

They're all whispers now. Arthur's not even sure they're talking, but they are, knows it by the warm breath just barely reaching his face, by the heartbeat murmuring in his right ear. 

"We'll talk about this in the morning. Really talk about it."

Arthur hears the movement of Merlin's mouth, imagines he's smiling. "Thank you," Merlin manages. 

Arthur's lips curve before he drifts, gets lost in the tidal patterns of Merlin's breath. Fantasizes that he feels spidery fingers trace lines across his cheekbone, his nose. Yes, he thinks. In the morning.