Chapter Text
“Arthur.”
He doesn’t falter. He can’t.
“Arthur.”
Merlin’s voice is breathy and weak, and something in Arthur’s chest shatters at the sound of it.
His feet thunder down another hill, the crunch of the leaves and the fading snow echoing in the forest.
A hand, cold and bloody, reaches up to touch his face.
”Arthur. Please, stop this. Stop.”
It’s more than he’d heard his friend manage since… since.
Arthur loses his footing. A tree root and a patch of icy snow leave them both sprawled on the forest floor.
He wants to cry. He does.
His legs are weak, his breathing is harsh and burning, and they’re still miles away from Camelot.
It’s hopeless. In all the time he’d known Merlin, nothing had ever been hopeless. There had always been some unlikely solution, some last-second miracle that saved both of their hides.
There is no miracle now. Only Merlin, bleeding out of a hole in his stomach and whimpering into Arthur’s shoulder.
They’re alone. There’s no mysterious druid healer in the trees, prepared to save his best friend’s life for the right price, or a magical cure hiding in the winter foliage.
His grip around Merlin’s legs tightens.
It may be hopeless, but he can’t just accept it, can he?
So he plants his feet and attempts to pull Merlin back up into his arms, but a pained cry rises above the rush in his ears, and he stops.
”Merlin, it’s alright. We - we’re not that far now, yeah? We can make it. We’ll make it, I swear it.”
A long, pitiful whine leaves Merlin as he shakes his head emphatically.
”No, we can’t, Arthur, please. Just,” he sighs, turning his head to bury it deeper into Arthur’s cape, “Just stay here. Just stay with me.”
A small, gasping sob escapes Arthur, and he covers it by leaning in and tenderly pressing lips against Merlin’s hair.
He’s never known the man to give up. Never.
But he also knows that Merlin’s smarter than Arthur’s ever given him credit for.
He knows he’s dying. He doesn’t want to die alone.
Arthur can’t deny him that.
“Alright,” he says, despite feeling as though his lungs have been ripped from his chest. He descends back into the snow, careful not to jostle the bundle in his arms. “Alright, Merlin. I’ll stay with you.”
Merlin smiles at that, and Arthur brushes a shaking hand against his cheek.
Suddenly, his friend laughs, and Arthur startles at the sound of it. Bright and mirthful, despite the painful cough that accompanies it. It hurts to see, but Arthur can’t look away.
”What’s so funny?” he asks, voice rough, and Merlin looks up at him as if there isn’t blood smeared across his face.
”I guess I’m a hero now, aren’t I?”
A shocked laugh escapes Arthur, eventually devolving into something wet and broken.
“Of course you are, Merlin.”
His raven haired boy says nothing in response, only gives him a small smirk. It’s so… it’s so Merlin, and it cuts right through the shock and the grief and drags Arthur kicking and screaming into reality.
He wants to apologize for failing in his responsibility to protect Merlin, but he can’t. It’s not what Merlin needs to hear.
So instead, he combs his fingers through the boy’s dark locks, and huddles him closer.
He takes a deep breath, steels himself for what he needs to say.
”I love you,” he whispers, just loud enough to be heard over the rustling of the wind.
It’s not happy. It’s not a relief, the way he always thought it would be.
But Merlin smiles, wide and brilliant. He gathers himself, takes a few gasping breaths that make Arthur’s stomach turn, and responds.
”Love you too, clotpole.”
What leaves Arthur’s mouth is less of a chuckle and more of a whine, something awful and animalistic that tears its way up from his throat.
No one will ever call him that again.
It’s a few minutes later, with Arthur’s lips pressed against his brow and their hands clasped together that Merlin breathes his last.
A desperate, anguished wail reverberates through the trees.