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The snow was so high that the hut was nothing but a lump of white in a sea of more white, streaked with black tree trunks and branches long denuded of leaves. The snows had come early and hard, and the cold was deep enough to freeze bones in their still-living bodies.
Merlin had prepared as well as he could, but even with the free use of his magic and the woodcraft Mordred had as a Druid, it clearly wasn’t going to be enough to last all winter.
But it would have to: they had nowhere to go. The Druids had gone to ground, deep in their winter camps, and Mordred didn’t know where to find them. Ealdor would be the other obvious choice, but Uther knew Merlin was from there and would think nothing of violating Cenred’s borders in pursuit of two sorcerers, one of whom had lived in the heart of Camelot for nearly a year.
Camelot….
It haunted Merlin’s thoughts.
Morgana had been caught helping Mordred escape, and then Arthur had been discovered in the second attempt, and Merlin had been forced to use magic in front of him and all the guards, so he had no choice but to flee with the young Druid in tow. Arthur’s expression of shock, of hurt, had been burned into Merlin’s mind’s eye ever since. He had always meant to tell Arthur, always wanted to, but not like that. Not in a way that made Arthur feel betrayed.
So there was nowhere to go. They had to make do with the snow and the cold and the hut.
Mordred huddled by the little fire, feeding it twigs. He was so small and thin. Kilgharrah might have said that Mordred would one day bring Arthur’s downfall, but right now, he was a child, and it was Merlin’s responsibility to keep him safe.
“Here,” he said, draping his tatty brown jacket over the boy’s shoulders. “This will help.”
Mordred looked up at him, eyes huge above his hollow cheeks. “What about you?” he asked.
“I’ll be fine,” Merlin said.
***
Weeks passed and their stores shrank, and each day the fire seemed weaker. Merlin always made sure Mordred ate the larger portion, wore the warmer clothes as even the days turned frigid, and the nights, arctic. They used magic as they might, but even that was not enough.
Merlin awoke one morning with a tight heat behind his eyes and a ticklish pinch in the back of his throat. His whole body throbbed as he made the water in the pot boil for breakfast, and Mordred watched him warily as he tried, and failed, to cough the tickle away.
“I always get a cold in winter,” Merlin reassured him. “I’ll be fine.”
***
But the cough sank deeper into his chest as the days went on, and the dull, ember-like heat became a fire that raged under his skin. Sleep was difficult, and getting up for the day was nearly impossible. The world felt thick and syrupy, his body very far away.
“Merlin, you’re ill,” Mordred mind-spoke to him, sounding worried enough that Merlin put all his strength into sitting up and smiling. He couldn’t focus his eyes so he couldn’t see Mordred’s reaction, but the quaver when he mind-spoke, “Really ill,” made Merlin think he hadn’t been very convincing. But thinking made his head throb appallingly.
“It’ll pass,” he mind-spoke Mordred, with the last of his energy. “I’ll be fine.”
***
Then came a day that he was not sure was a day. He hazed between coughing, painful wakefulness and dreams of Camelot that twisted into nightmares of Arthur’s shock turning to disgust, then anger.
Merlin sees him draw his sword and can’t move to defend himself as he drives the blade into his throat. Mordred is there, tied to a burning pyre, screaming, “Merlin! Merlin, hold on! I’ll get help!” and Merlin, despite the blade lodged in him, the blood running down him, the fire’s heat clawing at him, the former friend glaring hatefully at him, says back, “I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine…”
***
He drifted in a bleary, echoing space, turning and spinning and swooping and never getting dizzy because nothing drew him downward. Like swimming, but better. The air caressed him warmly, soothing the fire that had raged in him for so long. The bliss of it was so total that it made him remember he had been sick, and that tarnished the bliss, and introduced a sense of gravity. He hadn’t died, had he? He needed to look after Mordred: he was just a boy, it didn’t matter what Kilgharrah said—
He exerted the part of him that felt the pull ‘down’ and fell—
And came back to himself in the infirmary, in the bed where Gaius laid the sick and wounded, the better to treat them. He was cocooned in what felt like a hundred blankets, lying on his side.
He cracked an eyelid and saw the fire blazing in the hearth, and, at the table beside it, Mordred asleep with his head down on his crossed arms. He looked comfortable; warm, and his cheek was round with better eating than they had had since… well, since leaving Camelot.
Which was where they were again now.
Somehow.
“You’re awake,” said a voice Merlin never thought to hear again. “Good.”
He had to work to move his eyes around to land on—
Arthur.
Arthur in a surcoat and chainmail, blood-red cloak accentuating his broad shoulders, hair somewhat shorter than when Merlin had last seen it. He sat on a stool beside the pallet, elbows on knees, as though he had been there for a long time, watching over him. His mouth was doing something lopsided and there were deep shadows under his eyes, as though he hadn’t been resting.
All the emotion Merlin had kept locked away in the long months since he’d left came barging out and he choked on sudden tears.
“I’m so sorry, Arthur.” His voice was a weak little rasp that set off a coughing fit.
Arthur came and crouched beside him, patting him on the back and murmuring until the coughing stopped and he was able to drink something astringent from a cup Arthur held for him.
Exhausted, limp, he looked at Arthur through streaming eyes. “I’m sorry,” he repeated weakly.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” Arthur replied, lowering his head.
“My magic—I always wanted to tell you—”
“I know. Gaius has explained a great deal. I’ll still want to talk, when you’re well, of course, but it’s alright. I understand.”
Merlin subsided, the worst of his fears assuaged. Arthur didn’t hate him after all. He hadn’t ruined everything.
But the fact remained that he was somehow in Camelot again.
“How did we come to be here?” he rasped. “Mordred and I?”
Arthur glanced at Mordred, his expression wry and warm. “It was Mordred, in fact. He trekked through a blizzard all the way here and contacted Morgana, and some men and I went out to get you. That was four days ago.”
“I’ve been asleep for four days?”
“Longer. Mordred says he couldn’t wake you before he came here. Gaius says you’re incredibly lucky to be alive.”
The word twigged Merlin’s attention. “How am I still alive?” he asked, stomach curdling. “Lots of people saw me do magic, and Mordred is a known Druid. Why aren’t we at least in the dungeons?”
Arthur bowed his head then, and Merlin frowned in consternation. At length, Arthur said, “People keep congratulating me on my—my elevation to the throne.”
Merlin stared at him for several long seconds until the implication hit him like an avalanche. “Your father has died?” Then he winced at his uncareful question.
But Arthur only sighed. “He was furious after you escaped, as you can imagine. He locked me and Morgana in the cells and led the search for you himself. From what the knights have told me, he was like a demon. He pushed them all for days, threatened to kill them for treason when they needed to rest, and in the end… his horse stepped in a fox hole and broke its leg. My father was thrown and hit his head. They say he died… very quickly.”
Something was squeezing Merlin’s lungs, and he wasn’t the illness. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
Arthur glanced at him, lips bunched to the side. “You of all people have no reason to mourn him.”
“No,” Merlin agreed. “Not him. I’m sorry for you. That he hurt you, and that now you have to carry a burden you don’t feel ready for.”
Arthur looked at him properly then, and his eyes were those of a youth, forced all at once into manhood, and frightened by it. “I think I get a little closer to being ready every day,” he said softly. “I haven’t been alone: Gaius and Morgana and the knights have been staunch supporters. Guinevere has been… very helpful.” He blushed a little, and Merlin fought back a smile. “But I need you too, Merlin.”
“Really?” Merlin whispered. He desperately wanted to keep from crying, because he didn’t want to start coughing again and he didn’t want Arthur to tease him, but his throat was already starting to close.
Arthur nodded. “Camelot is going to be a very different place under my rule. My subjects will not fear me, and the law will not judge them for things about themselves they can’t change; only the actions they take. I don’t know of any place like that outside of legend, but I want to build it.” His eyes were shining as he spoke, full of his vision for the future, and Merlin lost the fight against his tears. “You’ve always tried to make me follow my better impulses,” Arthur said, his voice like a balm. “I need you to keep doing that, even when I’m horrible to you about it. I’ll try not to be, but…” His smile was sheepish and brought him back to the level of mortal men. “I know what I’m like.”
Merlin laughed through his tears, but that kicked off the coughing again. It went on for some minutes, but Arthur helped him through it and gave him more astringent medicine when it stopped. Merlin lay back on his pillows, exhausted.
“You need rest.” Arthur said it with the force of a royal decree. Merlin’s lips twitched in amusement. “Gaius is attending to a birth right now, but Mordred has proved himself a far more apt apprentice physician than you ever were, and I’ll send Guinevere—” Again the little blush. “—to sit with you. She’ll be pleased you’re awake, and Morgana will be too.”
“I don’t need a minder,” Merlin protested weakly. “I’m sure they’re busy, and I’ll be fine.”
Arthur frowned at him. “I don’t want you ‘fine’, Merlin. I want you well. ”