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Looking away from Merlin for but a moment, Arthur noted Gwaine in the distance. He was panting and leaning on a tree atop the nearest hill in the forest, eyes wide as he nodded at his king. Arthur unsheathed his sword quickly, in an instant, eyes flickering back to Merlin as he did so.
Merlin flinched. It was a whole-body flinch, a shuddering of every limb, a violent thing that had him stumbling backward, despite the hurt he was already in. His fingers and arms curled inward, his spine hunched more than it already had been, and the furrow in his brow from the pain of his wounds was replaced by shock.
Horror doused down Arthur’s spine. Horror because he knew what Merlin was thinking, and horror because he would have to keep on letting Merlin think that. There was no time to explain the plan, no time to reassure Merlin of what was about to happen.
He’d hoped… But no. Of course Merlin thought this way. Of course, after thirty years, anyone who knew was a threat. Arthur was an optimistic fool to have ever thought otherwise, regardless of the friendship he’d hoped would be stronger.
“Can you walk?” he asked, and hated how harsh his voice came out. Merlin, he knew, would take it as anger, pointed at him like he surely assumed the sword would be shortly. It wasn’t, but there wasn’t time to correct the misconception.
Merlin didn’t flinch this time, at the very least, but he was stiff as a board even bent over slightly, limbs knotted and tight as he visibly swallowed. “Yes,” he said, and his voice was weak, croaking with pain – and fear.
Arthur couldn’t miss the fear. But he had to ignore it. “Good,” he said, jaw tight. No time, you don’t have time for this. The words were like a mantra in his head, forcing him forward. “This way.” He strode ahead without glancing to Merlin, but the direction they had to go was on the other side of his best friend, and Merlin flinched again as Arthur neared.
It was a smaller thing this time, less full-bodied, more of a leaning-backward, but Arthur’s grip on his hilt tightened.
No time. He didn’t let his stride pause, didn’t look back to see if Merlin was following – if Merlin still trusted him enough to follow him, if Merlin was martyr enough to follow, even thinking what he did. No time, he repeated in his mind again. He couldn’t think these thoughts, couldn’t act on the desire to try and cry out – to toss his treasured sword into the underbrush around them just to reassure Merlin that he was safe.
Arthur cared about the magic – oh, he cared about the magic – and he cared about the secrets, and the lies. And he cared about the fear Merlin had lived with his whole life, and the careless things he’d said to the sorcerer beside him. And he cared about his father’s anger and rage and grief, and he cared about the children he’d killed to defend an unjust law, and…
No time!
He quickened his pace, only just mindful enough of his surroundings to hear Merlin snapping twigs behind him, clumsy as always – clumsier than always, weak-limbed and terrified after what the bandits –
No, Arthur. Later, he scolded himself, and twisted his fingers around the hilt in his hand as he reached Gwaine and the hilltop. If he could only let Gwaine stay in his place, heal Merlin’s hurts, reassure him. But Gwaine was needed too. Even exhausted, flinching back as his eyes stared behind Arthur (flinching back at the sight of Merlin, at the blood, at the limp, at the fear that must surely still be in Merlin’s eyes), Gwaine was needed.
Sword still clenched in one hand, he reached for his necklace with the other, pulling the royal seal from his neck with one smooth move. He pressed it into Gwaine’s hands, the knight’s warm fingers a shock of human contact, a grounding connection.
“You know what to say,” Arthur told his loyal friend – Merlin’s loyal friend, and that, more than anything, was what gave Arthur the confidence that Gwaine could pull this off.
Gwaine opened his mouth, still looking beyond Arthur. His gaze was haunted for a moment, regretful and aching, before determination hardened in his eyes. He closed his mouth, and didn’t say a word as he ripped his hand from Arthur’s, the chain of the seal biting against his fingers for a moment. Gwaine was already gone, already leaving, off to the encampment a mile south. It would be a hard run, but Gwaine could make it. That was one problem solved.
Still, Arthur didn’t turn back. He could hear the sounds of fighting now, now that he wasn’t focused on Gwaine, and he knew that the rest of his men were just out of sight, handling the last of the men that had taken Merlin.
He wanted to urge Merlin to stay put, and he didn’t want to let Merlin out of his sight, and he knew, better than he ever had before, that Merlin could take care of himself. He hadn’t, and he wouldn’t, not out of fear of revealing himself, but he could.
It was that thought, more than anything, that had Arthur finally turning to face his old friend, despite the danger he knew his knights were in. There was no time, but Merlin was the only one who could save them, and he couldn’t despair at the way that Merlin flinched again at the turn, at the sword near him yet again. He couldn’t cry out and drop the weapon and fall to his knees begging for mercy, all the hurtful things he’d said to Merlin running through his mind, every time he could have had the chance to welcome Merlin’s people with open arms and had given them a sword instead.
“Not much further,” he said, “but when we get there, I need you to break the statue.”
Merlin stared at him, still shying back from how he’d flinched, eyes blank and uncomprehending. He was too quiet, too unlike himself. Fear for his men made Arthur want to grab Merlin’s arm and rattle him until he understood. Three days ago, he might have. Two days ago, he would have been afraid himself. Now, there was no time!
“Merlin!” he snapped out, not angry but loud, worried, worried, worried – worried for Merlin, worried for the opposition Gwaine would face, worried for the rest of his men. “I need you to break the statue! Tell me you understand!”
Merlin’s gaze flickered to his sword for the barest of seconds before he met Arthur’s gaze again. There was a flicker of life in his eyes, a hint of mirth, a bare whisper of what had once been. His lips quirked upward in the slightest suggestion of a smirk. “Still as bossy as ever,” he said, voice croaking with disuse, with fear, with pain, with a thousand things Arthur wanted to address but couldn’t.
Arthur recognized the mask for what it was, finally. Finally, he felt, he could see into those insightful eyes, see all the things that had been hidden from him before. But his words had gotten through. Merlin knew what he had to do.
“I’ve got your back,” he said quickly, hastily, ignoring the way he knew Merlin must have felt about that. He pointed. “The ravine – now. The men are outnumbered.”
Outnumbered by living stone, enchanted by a statue none but a magic user could touch. Arthur needed Merlin to trust him, without a long explanation of everything that had transpired while he’d been captured – of every hill and valley Arthur’s emotions had taken him on, of every shouting match with those closest to him, with Gwen, with Gauis, with Gwaine and Percival and Elyan and Leon.
Merlin straightened up, the pain seeming to slough off him, though Arthur knew that was just a mask too. He nodded – his gaze flickered to Arthur’s sword one more time – and then he was off, a loping gait not quite as fast as he could normally run, but fast enough that Arthur was thankful for the speed of it.
Relief swamped him, that Merlin could still turn his back to him, that Merlin was still strong enough for one more fight. He fell into pace behind his friend as they dropped down off the hillside, as they rounded the bend behind the next and entered the ravine. His sword flashed with his fury, his grief, his regrets and his joy, as Merlin forced his way to the center of the fight. He didn’t use magic and Arthur didn’t know if that was because he couldn’t, or if it wouldn’t help, or if he still feared Arthur’s sword at his back, but it didn’t matter because he didn’t falter either.
Leon was slumped against one wall of the ravine, sword point in the dirt as he clutched at his midsection and guarded fiercely by an Elyan bleeding from one arm and one of the newer recruits. Percival was a bear, sword broken from the force he’d used against the stone soldiers and taken to slamming the hilt of it into the enemy instead. Another man – Kay, Arthur thought from the barest glimpse he caught, which mean the other was Bors – was limping as he watched Percival’s back. Gwaine, of course, had fled, with Arthur’s permission and encouragement. The human threats had been removed, bodies scattered and bloody on the ground, but the stone men were not so easily dispatched.
Arthur didn’t let one iota of danger, one limb of stone, one morsel of a threat get close to Merlin. He was a man possessed as his sword fended off stone, unbreaking but unable to break in return.
The enchanted statue was twenty feet into the ravine. They reached it in ten seconds, an instant and an eternity as Arthur took in the remnants of the battle he’d just left, and it was just in time too: Percival was shoved against the stone wall of the ravine with a cry of pain, Kay’s shoulder wrenching backward with a hit that made him drop his sword, Elyan almost out of steam and clearly struggling, and then Merlin was there, and Arthur was behind him, and the small statue was shattering against the stone it had been carved from.
The hair on the back of Arthur’s neck raised for a moment. The ravine fell silent. Percival slumped as the stone man pummeling him turned to dust. Elyan dropped his sword in a moment of sheer relief.
Arthur turned to Merlin, grinning. Arthur turned to Merlin, forgetting all the build up that had led to this moment with the relief that finally, finally, everyone he cared about was safe again. Arthur turned to Merlin, sword in his hand.
Merlin flinched.
Arthur’s sword hit the ground before his brain had even realized he’d released it. He was already taking a step back, already returning to grief and regret and anger at Merlin’s reaction.
For a moment, the two of them only stared at each other. Three days, leading up to this moment, and all of Arthur’s carefully rehearsed words fled his mind. Merlin was safe, and his knights were safe, and Gwaine was off making sure their backup wouldn’t charge in and put their blades to Merlin’s neck instead.
Finally, there was time, and Arthur couldn’t even make proper use of it, couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“Merlin.”
The word turned both of their heads. It was Percival who had spoken. Percival who was straightening. Percival, with a small smile on his lips and relief in his soft-spoken acknowledgement.
Merlin flinched. Again.
This time, sword forgotten on the ground, Arthur took a step forward instead of a step back. This wasn’t the time to put distance between them.
“Merlin,” he said himself, echoing Percival, echoing his knight with the same relief in his tone, but stronger, fiercer. Protective and joyful and possessive, even, because Merlin was his, like the knights were his, like Camelot was his, in that he’d give himself over to them in an instant. His hands flew up to grab Merlin’s biceps, and he ignored the way Merlin flinched again, smaller this time, pained a little, even, from the tight grip Arthur had.
“Merlin,” he repeated, strong, fierce, solid and intense and sincere. “There is nothing in the world you could do that would make me turn my sword on you.” He meant it. In that moment, he meant it with every fiber of his being.
There was another moment of silence. Merlin stared into his gaze, relaxing a little, tension seeping from his limbs even as his eyes remained guarded, assessing.
“Merlin,” Leon said this time, smiling, pushing himself off the ravine wall. “We’re glad you’re safe.”
With effort, Merlin wrenched his gaze away from Arthur to look at the First Knight, the one who was clearly speaking for all of them. His gaze flickered around the clearing, clearly judging the accuracy of Leon’s words. Arthur didn’t bother to look away from him to see his men’s agreement.
“Merlin,” he said, a third time, pulling Merlin’s eyes back to him. “Let’s go home. All of us.”
There was a second, a beat, a barest moment of hesitation, and then Merlin grinned – cheeky and exhausted and perhaps not quite as bright as usual, but genuine. “I thought you’d never ask.”
And when Arthur finally let him go, when King Arthur of Camelot plucked his sword from the ground, the sorcerer at his side didn’t flinch.
He knew now, finally, that he never needed to fear that sword again.