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The fire has begun to burn low.
Arthur should snuff it out completely. It’s died enough already that it isn’t doing much to provide warmth, and the sooner it’s out, the sooner he can get some sleep. He’ll need it, for the ride back to Camelot tomorrow. At least eight hours in the saddle, followed by a debriefing with his father, and then he’s back to commanding his knights; fighting sinew and steel against a creature of myth and might. He should rest while he has the chance.
He makes no move to stifle the flames. His gaze is fixed instead on the figure beside him.
Merlin leans against him, eyes closed. He fell asleep nearly an hour ago, slumping into Arthur’s side without a second thought, nevermind that the both of them are already propped up against a tree. It’s terribly inappropriate– but they’re the only ones out here, and Arthur doesn’t have the heart (nor the desire) to wake him.
It’s been a rough couple of days for the both of them.
It started with the dragon attacking Camelot. Arthur hadn’t even known that such creatures still existed– he’d thought them to be extinct; the story of the Great Dragon chained beneath the citadel nothing more than myth. The flames that enveloped the citadel were no myth, though, and so he led his men into battle night after night, catching fragments of sleep where he could. And Merlin, being Merlin, did the same. If he wasn’t helping Gaius with the injured, he was at Arthur’s side, fussing over dented armor and imploring him to be careful.
Arthur watched good men fall and innocent civilians burn for days before his father ordered a quest. He and Merlin left the citadel, desperate to find the last Dragonlord, not knowing what ruin they would come back to. Not knowing who they would come back to.
Merlin feels, more deeply and more openly than anyone Arthur has ever known. Riding off from Camelot, the man had been unsettled and troubled. Worried, he claimed, about everyone back home. And that was true, Arthur knows, even if it wasn’t the full truth. They pushed their pace, they found Balinor–
– and something in Merlin seemed to settle. Smiles that had become scarce came easier. He wasn’t suddenly unburdened, but a weight had clearly lifted from his shoulders. Arthur breathed a little easier.
It barely lasted a day.
The look on Merlin’s face when Balinor was struck down is an expression Arthur never wants to see again. Horror and regret and grief and guilt, paired with the panicked desperation of his hands as he tried to catch Balinor, tried to stem the bleeding, as though that could fix all of this. The tears came, not long after.
Arthur would have to be blind, to miss the way that Merlin looked at Balinor; to miss the resemblance in their faces and mannerisms. Arthur thinks of the apparition of his mother from what feels like forever ago, trick that it was; the euphoria of finally finding her only for her to be torn from him once again. Arthur understands the ache that Merlin must feel, the emptiness, the guilt, even if he is not to blame. He understands.
They didn’t have time to give Balinor a proper burial. Between the chaos befalling Camelot and the danger of lurking in Cenred’s lands, they couldn’t stay. Merlin’s face was hard when they left him, lying in the dirt like a common bandit, and Arthur wishes that he could have done more– for Balinor, but mostly to ease Merlin’s pain.
Now, asleep, is the first time since the ambush that Merlin’s face has lost its hardness. The lines and angles of it have smoothed, and he looks at peace. Not at all like a man who’s just lost his father, or someone who carries the weight of too many secrets on his shoulders. The firelight flickers over his features and Arthur aches, because he would give anything for Merlin to be so unguarded, so at ease, when he’s awake.
Arthur knows about the magic. He knows that there are things that Merlin keeps tucked away, hidden from the garish light of day. It takes its toll on him; Arthur sees it in brief, longing glances and the desperation of poor alibis. In the way Merlin holds his tongue when magic comes up in conversation and the way he goes quiet sometimes, seemingly for no reason at all.
Arthur loves him, not despite the lies and half truths, but with them. One day, perhaps Merlin will trust him enough to let them go, but for now, Arthur takes them without question or complaint, and handles them with the same reverence he does every scrap of affection that Merlin throws his way.
The fire burns even lower, flickering weakly. The darkness creeps closer to the two of them. It makes Arthur brave; gently, he reaches over to brush Merlin’s askew bangs back into place.
It’s an ugly haircut, but somehow, it suits him.
Arthur’s hand lingers. His fingers ghost over the line of Merlin’s jaw and he wishes– to touch, to preserve this moment and its peace.
“–’rthur?” Merlin’s face scrunches and his eyes open, just a crack, before fluttering closed again.
Arthur jerks his hand back. In front of them, the fire dies.
“Go back to sleep, Merlin,” Arthur tells him.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Merlin mumbles. He doesn’t make any move to wake up.
Despite it all, Arthur smiles.
They will have to go back to Camelot tomorrow and face whatever carnage awaits. Merlin will not fall asleep on Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur will pretend that he doesn’t yearn to know the parts of Merlin that are hidden away. Their touches will linger and they’ll ignore it, as usual.
Perhaps one day, Arthur thinks. He feels it somewhere in his bones. For now, though, he leans into Merlin as much as Merlin leans into him, and he closes his eyes.