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Merlin was shit at healing magic.
When Will fell and broke his arm, Merlin couldn’t have fixed it even if he’d tried. When his mother caught chickenpox, he couldn’t help her. When Gaius came down with a particularly nasty flu, all Merlin could do was brew tonics and bully him into drinking them.
He wasn’t any better with cuts or wounds, either. Lancelot got nicked by a sword? Merlin was useless. He tried and tried. He even practised on himself - he hurt himself often enough to be a decent test subject - but nothing ever worked.
Merlin was supposed to be the most powerful sorcerer to ever walk the earth. Magic itself. The one destined to bring peace, the immortal Emrys the druids whispered about, half god, half myth.
And yet, he couldn’t even heal a fucking paper cut.
He knew it would come back to haunt him one day.
He had nightmares about it - Arthur bleeding out on the battlefield while Merlin knelt beside him, powerless. Sometimes Arthur died because Merlin’s magic failed; sometimes because Arthur discovered it and turned away. Either way, Merlin always woke up with his heart pounding and his hands shaking.
Some days, he’d catch himself staring across the courtyard or the council chamber, eyes fixed on Arthur. He’d imagine every way things could go wrong - every moment his uselessness might cost Arthur his life.
What if Arthur were struck by an arrow? What if he were stabbed? What if Merlin’s magic failed him again?
He’d trained under Gaius. He knew the poultices, the stitches, the pressure points. But sometimes, even the best methods weren’t fast enough. Sometimes there were no supplies. And no physician, no matter how skilled, could heal a fatal wound.
But magic could.
Just not Merlin’s.
It all came to a head on a hunting trip.
The morning was cool, the forest still damp with mist. The knights were still at the campsite, Arthur having insisted on a chance to hunt alone.
Merlin trailed a few paces behind Arthur, carrying a spare quiver and trying not to trip over roots. Arthur glanced back once, then pressed a finger to his lips.
“Quiet, Merlin,” he whispered. “You’ll scare off everything within ten miles.”
Merlin rolled his eyes but bit back a retort. It wasn’t like he wanted to be there. Hunting always made his stomach twist. Too many sharp things pointed at the people he loved. Too much could go wrong.
“And we wouldn’t want that, would we,” Merlin muttered.
Arthur turned and raised an eyebrow. “No, Merlin. We wouldn’t. Since the whole purpose of this trip is to hunt.”
Merlin quirked his lips. “Right. Hunt. Because what Camelot really needs right now is another boar for nobles to feast on.”
Arthur sighed, long-suffering. “You complain more than the horses.”
“I have more to complain about than they do,” Merlin shot back. “At least they get fed regularly.”
Arthur glanced over his shoulder with that half-smile that always meant trouble. “Careful, Merlin. Keep talking and I might decide to test my aim.”
Merlin grinned. “You’d miss.”
Arthur’s smirk widened. “Is that a challenge?”
“More of a promise,” Merlin said, and Arthur shook his head, but Merlin could see the corner of his mouth twitching.
“You know, one day you’ll learn that you can’t speak to me like that. I am the prince, you know.”
Merlin grinned. “Prince Prat.”
Arthur shook his head, but he was grinning that wide, disbelieving smile that he only ever seemed to have around Merlin.
There was a sharp whizz that echoed through the air. Merlin looked u and his eyes widened in horror.
“Arthur!” Merlin barely had time to shout before the arrow struck. There was a dull, sickening sound as it buried itself deep in Arthur’s chest.
For a heartbeat, the world stopped. The birds went silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Then Merlin looked up. He didn’t think. Didn’t even move. His magic surged before he could stop it, a pulse of gold flaring behind his eyes, a burst of energy that cracked through the air. The attacker flew backward as if struck by an unseen force, hitting the ground with a final, lifeless thud.
Merlin was already on his knees beside Arthur. His hands hovered uselessly, shaking above the arrow. He didn’t dare touch it.
“Arthur-”
Arthur’s breath hitched, a soft grunt escaping him. “Mer… Merlin.”
“Shh,” Merlin murmured, voice trembling. “Don’t talk. You’re going to be fine, all right? Just… just stay still.”
His fingers brushed Arthur’s cheek, desperate for warmth. Blood was already blooming through the torn fabric of Arthur’s tunic, too much, too fast. Merlin pressed down, panic clawing at his chest.
“Please,” he whispered, eyes burning gold again. “Not you. Anyone but you.”
He heard Arthur’s startled gasp, felt him tremble under Merlin’s hands, but whether it was from pain or fear, Merlin didn’t know.
His eyes stayed gold as he pushed his magic into Arthur. There were tears streaming down his cheeks and the blood was spreading as it soaked through Arthur’s clothes.
“No, no, no,” Merlin sobbed. “Please.”
He felt Arthur’s fingers lightly graze his arm and he tore his eyes from the wound to meet his gaze. Arthur was looking at him with such softness, it made Merlin cry harder.
“Merlin,” he breathed. “It’s okay.”
Merlin choked. “No, it’s not! I can save you. I can. Please. Just… just hold on for me. Please.”
Arthur’s eyes fluttered.
“Don’t you dare leave me!” Merlin yelled. “Arthur!”
“Can’t…” Arthur gasped, blood trickling out of his mouth, “tell me what to do.”
His eyes slipped closed and his breathing slowed to an almost non-existent rhythm. Merlin was losing him.
Merlin looked back down at the wound.
It couldn’t end like this. Not here. Not like this. Not him.
Arthur couldn’t leave him, not when there was still so much left unsaid, so much left undone. Not when every day Merlin bit his tongue to keep from saying I can’t lose you. I love you.
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head hard enough to blur his vision. “No, no, no, you’re not dying, do you hear me? You can’t.”
He pressed his hands against Arthur’s chest, trying to stop the blood that wouldn’t stop flowing, feeling it hot and slick beneath his palms. Arthur’s breaths came in shallow gasps now, each one smaller than the last.
“Please,” Merlin choked. “Please, just… just stay with me.”
He reached inward, into the place where his magic lived, that vast, wild thing that had always been too big for him, and this time, he didn’t hold it back. He tore it open.
Merlin let out an agonised scream and the world around him screamed with him.
Magic surged up from the earth, through his hands, through his heart. It burned. It was fire and ice and pain, too much of everything. His body convulsed, his veins searing with golden light.
He felt the life around him shatter. The forest dimmed, the trees bowed, the air thickened. The leaves curled and blackened underfoot. Every heartbeat of the world became his own, and he was stealing it, dragging it all into Arthur.
He was sobbing now, half from agony, half from fear.
“Take it,” he whispered hoarsely. “Take everything. I don’t need it. Just, please.”
His arms were glowing gold, then his chest, then all of him, a living sun, burning himself out to keep Arthur alive. The air rippled with power. The ground cracked beneath his knees.
And then-
Arthur gasped.
Merlin froze.
The arrow was gone. The wound was closing before his eyes, the torn flesh knitting together, pink and whole again. The blood on Merlin’s hands glowed for a moment before vanishing into Arthur’s skin, leaving only the faint shimmer of magic in the air.
Arthur’s chest rose. Fell. Rose again.
He was breathing.
Merlin’s vision swam. The forest around him was silent - eerily, painfully silent. The trees were grey, the grass wilted, the world hushed as if in mourning.
He looked down at Arthur, at the man he’d just dragged back from death, and his throat closed.
“You’re all right,” Merlin whispered, voice breaking. “You’re all right, you stupid, stubborn prat.”
He laughed, then, a broken, wet sound. His glowing hands trembled where they rested over Arthur’s heart. The golden light flickered, dimmed, and finally went out.
And Merlin collapsed forward, forehead pressing against Arthur’s shoulder, breathing in ragged sobs that tasted of blood and ash and relief.
He lay there sobbing as Arthur’s chest rose and fell underneath his cheek. Then, he felt a hand bury itself in his hair.
“Merlin?”
Merlin raised his head and looked down at Arthur. His prince looked back at him with soft, concerned eyes. His other hand lifted and his fingers wiped at the tears on Merlin’s face.
“You…” Arthur started. He swallowed. “You used magic.”
Merlin trembled under Arthur’s finger tips. “Yes.”
Arthur didn’t pull away. His fingers continued to wipe softly at the tears falling from Merlin’s eyes.
“Okay,” Arthur said softly. “Okay.” He was hesitant, then he asked, “Let me sit up?”
Merlin stumbled backward, giving him space to sit up. His hands were still shaking. He watched as Arthur blinked blearily, eyes darting around, confusion giving way to horror.
For the first time, Merlin really saw what his magic had done.
The trees were blackened. The grass had withered to dust beneath them. Leaves hung limp and lifeless from skeletal branches. The air itself felt heavy, still, as though the forest were holding its breath. Dead birds lay scattered across the ground. Every sound of life was gone.
They were sitting in a graveyard of Merlin’s making.
Arthur turned back to him, eyes wide and full of something Merlin couldn’t name. “You… you saved me.”
Merlin let out a broken laugh, part relief, part disbelief, part grief. “I can’t lose you,” he whispered. His throat burned. “I can’t… Arthur, if you’d…”
He couldn’t finish. The words dissolved into the thick, empty silence that surrounded them.
They sat there for a long time, side by side, the only living things left in a dead world.
Arthur’s gaze flicked toward the horizon, where the mist had turned the sky an ashen grey. “My father can’t know,” he said quietly. “He’ll kill you.”
“I know,” Merlin murmured.
“The knights… they mustn’t find out what happened here. Not when we get back to camp.”
“I know,” Merlin said again.
Arthur turned to him, jaw tight. “This is dangerous. You’re in danger just being here. Merlin-”
“I know.” Merlin’s voice cracked on the third one. He wasn’t defiant, just tired, so tired.
Arthur reached out before he could pull away. His fingers found Merlin’s chin, firm but trembling slightly, turning him to face him. The golden light was gone from Merlin’s eyes now, leaving only exhaustion and fear.
Arthur’s gaze softened. “I love you,” he said simply.
Merlin froze.
Arthur swallowed. “I love you,” he repeated, stronger this time, as if daring the world to take it back.
And before Merlin could think, before he could breathe, Arthur was kissing him, desperate, trembling, alive.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was urgent, messy, the kind born from panic and relief and the terrible knowledge of almost losing everything. Arthur’s breath was still uneven. Merlin could taste iron and smoke.
Merlin clutched at the front of Arthur’s tunic, dragging him closer, fingers curling in the torn fabric as if to keep him from slipping away again. Arthur’s hands found Merlin’s shoulders, then his neck, pulling him in until there was no space left to breathe, only the wild thrum of life between them.
The world around them was scorched and still, but inside that small circle of touch and heat, everything felt alive. Every heartbeat, every shuddering breath, every tiny sound Arthur made felt like proof that he was here.
When they finally broke apart, Merlin’s forehead fell against Arthur’s, both of them gasping. Arthur’s thumb traced the corner of Merlin’s mouth, and he gave a hoarse, disbelieving laugh.
“You really don’t listen,” he murmured.
Merlin smiled, breathless. “You’re still talking. I’d call that a success.”
Arthur huffed out a laugh, low and soft, and the sound carried through the dead forest like a promise.
“I love you,” Merlin whispered.
Arthur smiled. “I know. I love you, too.”
The storm of his magic had softened, folding back into him like sunlight fading through clouds. In its quiet hum, Merlin felt certainty settle deep in his bones. Whatever destiny still had in store, he would meet it without fear.
Because when the world called, his magic would answer… and it would always, always fight for Arthur.