"There is no way Merlin is screwing the Prince of Camelot." ↴
Little did he know, Gawain had never been more wrong.
♖ ♔ ♖
In which Merlin learns love, lust and loss through the wicked hand of his enemies, and Arthur realises that his most corrupt si...
All alone I fought the cause Up against the clock that started me It's the life anonymous Trusted with the lives of all of us I failed to see the flaws in the details I adored
~ THE HOOSIERS, DEVIL'S IN THE DETAIL
➣
Eyes wide with unspoken pain, Arthur swayed alarmingly.
Merlin gaped - before lurching forward and hooking his arms under the Prince's own, upholding the limp body. However, under the weight of the armoured Prince, Merlin was left helplessly staggering, his boots sliding in the mud. Finally - legs folding beneath the crushing burden - Merlin crumpled to the ground, Arthur an unyielding weight upon his chest that pressed him to the sodden earth.
A soft sigh escaped Arthur's lips, delicately mingling with the cold air like a kiss - a sound Merlin devotedly adored, though not now - as he looked vacantly down at his marred shoulder. All his life, the Prince had been taught that showing weakness was as good as admitting defeat - therefore he'd made no sound when his legs had given way, leaving him slouched and despondent in the mud, relying solely upon Merlin to lessen his fall. The arrow jutted proudly from his shoulder- standing tall and straight, waving at the heavens like a white flag.
Arthur hoped his father would be proud - if he could see his son now - valiant and brave, right until the very end, suppressing the convulsive shudders that wracked his body like sobs. His vision trembled, blurring at the edges, distorting the things he thought he knew so well. Merlin - peering down at him, horrified tears dancing in his eyes as his arms curled tighter around the Prince's chest. Arthur felt a great swell of sadness for his manservant; if it wasn't for Merlin, he might never had discovered himself.
Perhaps Uther would not have been so proud of his son after all - especially when Arthur's trembling hands sought Merlin's own, squeezing them tightly; holding on like this alone would cease the blood flow that cascaded down his chest, bubbling through the chain mail, dyeing his cape a darker shade of crimson. His features - usually so charming and controlled - were contorted agonisingly, fingers interlaced with Merlin's as he fought to conquer the unbearable pain.
If his lips were able to form the words, Arthur might have expressed his gratitude towards Merlin; it was curiously comforting to feel the man's heartbeat - though quickened by apprehensive fear - pulsing rhythmically, his presence filling Arthur with peculiar, fabricated ease. His eyelids drooped and he imagined they were resting; warm and content in one another's company, cocooned together beneath swaddled blankets, tranquil in the comfort and safety of the Prince's chambers. He could be soundly asleep, weary and fatigued upon Merlin's chest - as he had lain countless times before - as they dozed in one another's company.
But in truth, Arthur's body lay pale, rigid and inert in his servant's shaking embrace. Finally dragging his agonized gaze from the collapsed Prince, Merlin's heart dropped hopelessly.
This was wrong; all wrong.
Each bandit donned a warily triumphant expression - but remained motionless - as the archers lowered their bows. Merlin felt no reassurance; it was as though something were holding them back - some invisible rope, or an inaudible call. Perhaps they were unnerved by the horse's carcass - alas, Merlin realised with faltering horror that these men were doubtlessly familiar with the repulsive notion, for they were the ones to cast her down - a sickening forewarning, barbarically comical.
Arthur's rasping breaths emerged shallow and ragged. His features were carved of candle-wax, dull and sallow; his eyes - blank to everyone but Merlin, who saw the restrained anguish that engulfed them - fixed on his lover's trembling lips. Numbness swamped his body and his mind veered astray - enticing unconsciousness rendering his senses useless.
The abundant weight of Arthur's insensible body crushed Merlin's chest, squeezing his lungs painfully - but he would gladly suffer. Even when the icy mud seeped through his jacket and chilled his pale skin, the warlock simply pulled Arthur closer to his pounding heart, hiding his burgeoning worry behind a visage of confused loathing.
Yet still, no one moved.
What were they waiting for?
With an unnerving jolt, Merlin realised that the forest had elapsed into silence - it was deathly quiet, so eerie and foreign - pressing upon his ears like resolute hands. Sounds of skirmish no longer reverberated through the passage - meaning one of two things. Either the knight's had overthrown the attackers and fled or... Merlin squeezed his eyes shut.
He wouldn't think about that; instead he pictured Arthur's shining blue eyes as he leant in for a kiss, or the way his sandy hair blew like tussocks in the breeze. He imagined the warmth of his hand and the gentle softness of the Prince's lips, and the way he rolled his eyes in exasperated, affectionate amusement when Merlin cracked a terrible joke.
Contentedly indulged in such pleasant reminiscence, Merlin accepted his certain demise.
Alas, if only it had come sooner.
"Shhh, it's okay, you're not going to die."
A sweetly soothing voice tickled Merlin's ear and he instantly relaxed; an unexplainable wave of calmness washing over him as he revelled in the speaker's assurance. It sounded almost like his mother, and he let himself imagine he was at home again - Hunith whispering bedtime stories to him, a cat curled upon his lap as they listening in drowsy peace, the fire crackling and the alluring aroma of cooked meats hanging in the air.
"At least... not yet."
She continued; Merlin's eyes snapped open and his heart tripped in panic, the dream tearing away like the breath from his chest. A tone so wicked and dark, so evil and malevolent - every word dripped vicious, exultant threat. How Merlin could confuse such an eerily honeyed voice to his own mother's was implausible; but it was as plain to the ears as the terrible sight was to Merlin's eyes.
Morgana stood before him, an extravagantly familiar figure against the towering sepia walls.
A horrifying second dragged slowly - and Merlin realised.
This was all Morgana's doing. She had known the patrol's route, their exact whereabouts - no doubt meticulously plotting to intercept the knights when they were most disadvantaged - and it had worked perfectly. Merlin's mind scrambled fruitlessly to make sense of the situation - how had she known, and what reason did she harbour for acting now?
What more did she know about the Prince and his servant?
➣
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
a/n - sorry for not updating sooner! I've been busy with school, and stuck in this mid-story slump - only one more chapter left in this hellish situation though! :D
I've also been spending some time working on three new Merlin stories!! Crazy right? I'm super excited to get them all fine-lined and published -keep an eye out!! ;)
As always - thank you so much to everyone for reading, commenting and voting!! <3 The sudden swell in support has left me so honoured and overjoyed!
