Happy Merlin Holidays, amythystluna! [2/3]

[merlin-hols.livejournal.com]

It only gets colder the further north they get, and the ride increasingly strenuous as the land begins to slope upward; even if they were warm enough to be in the mood for it, there’s no way they could race the horses on the shaley incline. The journey has become entirely miserable—as well as the constant, misting rain, the narrow zig-zagging path up the hillside means they have to ride in single file—and the gusting wind means there’s no way Arthur can speak over his shoulder with any hope of Merlin hearing him.

Finally they reach the first tier of the mountains; the path straightens out as they complete the climb, and stretches out in a long line along a narrow summit. At least the over-enthusiastic wind means that the visibility is fairly clear ahead; Arthur can see the path ending in the grey slope of another hillside.

But then the wind carries with it another sound that’s not unlike the whistling cry of a gale, but not alike enough for Arthur to disregard it. He shifts his gaze to scan the sky. The racing clouds fill his vision, their movement twisting his senses vertiginously, but he refuses to look away until he spots what he’s looking for: a sinuous black shape that darts upwards amidst the pale grey, then drops directly down like a falling arrow. As if seeing the first has trained his eye, he spots another two of the dark shapes swooping up through the clouds and diving down again.

When he turns around to point them out to Merlin, it’s to find him much closer than Arthur expected; he’s dismounted and come to stand beside Arthur on the narrow path, his shoulder practically brushing Arthur’s knee. If he were on Arthur’s other side, Arthur could have unsheathed his sword and beheaded Merlin without even noticing. He tightens the grip of his legs on the horse and tugs the reins to move away; it grumbles and shuffles aside on the narrow path.

Merlin drags his gaze away from the sky, and looks to Arthur, expression grim.

“Wyverns,” Arthur tells him.

Merlin nods. “I didn’t expect to see them somewhere this cold.”

Arthur grimaces, remembering the sickly heat of the Perilous Lands, and the rotten smell of the wyverns’ breath as they’d swooped towards him, screaming, his sword far too heavy in his hands. “I was hoping we’d be able to shelter in the caverns in these mountains, but I suppose this means they’re already occupied.”

The three wyverns drop out of sight again, and Arthur and Merlin watch in silence for long moments, waiting for them to reappear. After some time and still no sign of them, Merlin says, “They have no fire to keep them warm like proper dragons. They must make their eyries here, to hibernate in the winter.”

“I suppose the covering of snow would make this a safe enough place to bed down and be completely vulnerable for a few months. Though I dread to think just what wyverns consider predators, to guard themselves to this extreme.” He frowns, looking down at Merlin. “Since when are you a scholar in the ways of dragons?”

Merlin shakes his head quickly. A particularly vicious gust of wind has him rocking on his heels; he tugs his scarf up over his nose and mouth—covering half his face like a guilty bandit—before replying. “Not a scholar,” he says, raising his voice over the noise of the weather. “Just an avid reader of Gaius’ bestiaries.” Arthur is missing half his expression due to the scarf, but he recognises the keen playfulness of Merlin’s eyes when Merlin looks up at him again. “I thought it wise to read up on them, considering the sorts of trouble you inevitably get yourself into.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, then takes a tighter grip on his reins and nudges his heels into his horse’s sides, walking on. Merlin’s eyes widen and he hurries to scramble back onto his horse and ride after him.

They proceed with more caution, Arthur keeping his eye on the skies ahead as much as he does the path in front, so they’re barely halfway up the next mountain before it’s time to camp for the night. The cold is becoming hard to ignore, and Merlin looks downright miserable. Arthur doesn’t even gripe about helping him untack the horses and set up a tent under the most sheltered bit of overhang they can find. There’s no chance of a fire, so they share cold pottage directly out of the pot, gnawing the last stale ends of the bread that’s remained remarkably dry in Merlin’s pack all these days.

Merlin himself doesn’t seem to have fared quite as well as the food. Arthur hasn’t seen him properly dry since they left Camelot—it’s a miracle that his clothes dry enough overnight to wear again each morning. And the higher up they travel, the colder it gets. Arthur’s not sure he’s seen Merlin smile since they started the ascent.

When the wind blows in their direction, rain patters on the outside of the tent, and Arthur hopes against hope that the oilcloth holds up at least another night—he’d be more than willing to fight a wyvern for somewhere reliably sheltered to sleep at this point. The low cloud makes for an early, odd sort of twilight, and though the tent is tied shut, there’s enough dim, watery light left to see each other—certainly enough for Arthur to see that Merlin’s fingernails are blue, and that he’s finding it far more of a struggle to get his boots off than wet leather alone can account for.

“Honestly, Merlin,” Arthur says, exasperated. He rises awkwardly to his feet, hunched over so as not to brush the precariously wet skin of oilcloth above him. “Leave those on.” He shoos Merlin to his feet and out of the way, and makes quick work of rearranging their bedrolls, dismantling them in order to lay one oilcloth on the ground and one on top, layers of woollen blankets between.

“Sit,” Arthur commands, and Merlin obeys with a faint expression of bewilderment. That alone chases away any reservations Arthur might have about his hastily-thought-out plan.

He kneels to yank Merlin’s boots off, then orders, “Undress.” And folds his arms to watch as Merlin does so.

Merlin’s jaw is tight, but Arthur suspects it’s less stubbornness and more to suppress his chattering teeth. Once Merlin has got his arms wrapped around his bare, skinny chest, Arthur unclasps the neck of his cloak and throws it around Merlin’s shoulders. Merlin looks surprised for a moment, but voices no protest; on the contrary, he hoists the cloak up to hood his head as well. Wrapping it snugly around his entire body, he tips onto his side on the combined bedrolls and curls into a shivering, cloak-covered ball.

Arthur can see his own breath cloud faintly in the air as he undresses, but instead of thinking about that, he focuses on the smell of wet wool and the leathery, horsey scent of drying tack filling the enclosed space. Undressing in front of Merlin makes Arthur feel a peculiar kind of shyness. It’s not as if he’s not able to do it himself—he’s just not used to Merlin being present without helping. And Merlin doesn’t even pretend not to be there; Arthur can see him peering out of a gap in the cloak, the rest of his face hidden but his eyes fixed on Arthur. Clearly, though Merlin aspires to the privileges of a knight, he hasn’t any of the courtesy. Arthur considers reprimanding him for it, but settles on preserving his own pride instead: acknowledging Merlin’s gaze by staring right back.

The long, woollen winter underclothes beneath Arthur’s shirt and trousers are completely dry, and he strips them off quickly and tosses them to Merlin before practically leaping back into his clothes. Merlin sits up, and the cloak falls down around his shoulders and lower, fur slipping against the smooth skin of his upper arms. Merlin clutches the bundle to his chest. “But—”

“Put it on, Merlin,” Arthur says sternly; if Merlin sits around looking disconcerted and being ludicrously undressed any longer, then all the body heat that Arthur’s been strategically imbuing into the thick knit of the hose and undershirt will dissipate, and Merlin will have to start all over again.

Much to Arthur’s relief, Merlin actually grumbles at that order—though he’s threading his long, gangly limbs into the underclothes even as he does so. And isn’t that a ridiculous sight: they fit Arthur like a second skin but sag loosely on Merlin, even though his knobbly wrists and ankles show below the hems. While they’re much of a height, clearly Merlin is rather more coltishly built than Arthur.

Arthur points to the bedroll. “Get in,” he orders.

Merlin crawls over and the knitted hose sag precariously low over his arse; he hitches them up and glares back at Arthur before wriggling down under the blankets. “I’m beginning to think we should have brought some knights along after all,” he mutters darkly.

Arthur can’t help but feel affronted. “What are you saying, Merlin? You miss the warmth of Gwaine’s beery farts on a cold night such as this?”

Merlin pulls a face. “Just that when they’re around, the ordering about tends to be shared more equally.”

“Sharing,” Arthur scoffs, manoeuvring his own way into the bedroll, shivering involuntarily at the first chilly touch of the cold blankets. Merlin’s not that much warmer beside him, when their shoulders brush in the narrow space. “You know, Merlin, sometimes I wonder if you have any grasp at all of the hierarchy of noble blood in this kingdom.”

“Half of your knights aren’t even of noble blood,” Merlin points out, unimpressed. “Not even your favourite.”

“My what?” Arthur is far too dignified to squawk; his voice just comes out at a slightly higher pitch than usual.

“Lancelot,” Merlin says, in a tone that implies that Arthur is slow. “And, servant or knight, you boss around everyone when you’re in a mood.”

Arthur feels defensive, and it’s decidedly unpleasant. “Lancelot is your favourite, Merlin, and don’t think it’s escaped my notice,” he says, in a rush to come up with a suitable retort, then regrets it immediately. He scowls, more at the heat prickling in his own face than at Merlin.

Merlin huffs. “Well, I’ve noticed things too. He is very eager to please you, and don’t pretend you don’t love it. You don’t even have to give him orders half the time. You probably wouldn’t even need to tell him to undress and get into bed before he’d do it for you.”

There’s a long pause. Given Merlin’s tendency to be shocked by even the vaguest hints of suggestiveness from Arthur, Arthur is not sure if he realises what he’s just said. The silence coming from Merlin’s direction suggests he has.

Arthur decides that tried-and-true goading is the best way to lead them out of the impasse. “I fail to see where the fun is in that,” he drawls.

Merlin huffs a startled laugh. “I knew you liked ordering me about for the fun of it,” he says, as if he has any right to feel affronted by that at all. “Just never thought you’d admit it, being the oblivious prat that you are.”

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur says haughtily, which he knows is one of the better ways to rile Merlin up. “And come here. I’m cold.”

“Good. I hope you freeze,” Merlin says with a certain degree of anticipatory glee, and squirms away in the bedroll until he’s not touching Arthur at all.

It’s as provocative as Merlin no doubt intends, but Arthur can’t help but respond with a degree of outrage anyway—now it’s Merlin’s turn to make an undignified noise of surprise as Arthur reaches for him, grabbing a fistful of knitted cloth and hauling him back in.

“I knew even the simplest kindness would be wasted on you, Merlin,” Arthur declares, trying to yank the woollen undershirt back up and off him. “I suppose, if your dignity won’t allow any consideration for your prince, then I’ll just have to take these back.”

Merlin yelps, bucking and kicking out. He grabs Arthur’s wrists and tries to force him away, but as far as strength goes there’s no competition; he only serves to slow Arthur’s attempts a little. Arthur’s only striving for it half-heartedly, anyway: wrestling Merlin has his body heating like it hasn’t in days; he’s not sure he wants it over so quickly.

“Get off me,” Merlin growls, breathless with the exertion of fighting back. But even though his hands are clamped tight around Arthur’s wrists and knees jabbing up against Arthur’s thighs, he’s arching his chest against Arthur’s like a puffed-up bird, as if he can fend Arthur off with the narrow frame of his ribs as a shield. “You’re nothing but a—”

“A what?” Arthur asks with false nonchalance. They fumble, and Arthur gets the upper hand; his clenched knuckles brush against Merlin’s side below the shirt. Merlin’s skin is startlingly warm; Arthur’s heart suddenly lurches into a faster pace. He ducks his head closer, intimidating with proximity. “Go on.”

Merlin’s chin juts belligerently. “A pompous lout. A common thug. A—” He cuts off with a gasp as Arthur releases a bit more strategic strength, and for a few panting moments they struggle.

When they stop again, Merlin’s still on his back. Arthur has moved his grip from clothes to the bare skin of Merlin’s side, and his knee is braced on the ground between Merlin’s legs. Merlin’s chest heaves up against Arthur’s, breath hot against Arthur’s face.

It’s not at all cold in the tent anymore, though the blankets have slipped halfway down Arthur’s back. And even if it was cold, he’s not sure he could bring himself to relinquish his hold on Merlin long enough to draw them back up.

“A what, Merlin?” he murmurs again, voice a low rumble that has Merlin’s lashes fluttering—which should look utterly ridiculous, but Arthur is taken by it. He feels compelled to slide his hand further up Merlin’s side, and then Merlin’s skin is so smooth and warm, so unexpectedly delightful to touch, that he has to stroke back down again. His grip settles at Merlin’s waist, fingers splayed towards the small of Merlin’s back and his thumb brushing lightly down to Merlin’s hip.

Merlin sucks in a sharp breath and Arthur feels his own catch in his throat. Desire pierces his gut like a crossbow bolt. He feels locked into place, every point of contact between him and Merlin suddenly blazing into flame. Blood pounds dizzyingly in his ears. The most disorienting part of it is that it isn’t a new sort of heat: it feels as if it’s been there all along, and he’s only just noticed it now.

It’s Merlin who breaks the tableau. There’s no trace of defiance on his face as he stares up at Arthur, and he doesn’t break Arthur’s gaze as he places his hand on Arthur’s elbow and runs it slowly up to his shoulder, as unmistakably a caress as Arthur’s hand on Merlin’s side. Merlin’s lips part like he’s going to speak, but his gaze has dropped down from Arthur’s eyes to his mouth.

Suddenly, that’s enough, that’s the key: the scant space left between them is unlocked and they’re kissing and kissing, Merlin pushing up just as hard as Arthur is bearing down, each licking and nipping as frantically as the other, their breath huffing and heaving. Heat surges through Arthur’s body, and he presses bodily down, crooking his knee up between Merlin’s thighs, running his hand ceaselessly between Merlin’s waist and his back. Merlin huffs a soft noise against Arthur’s upper lip and his arms wrap around Arthur’s neck to clasp him closer, hold him in place; Arthur groans and slides his hand down lower, pushing it under the woollen hose to the rounded flesh of Merlin’s arse. Merlin arches as if in surprise, and when Arthur tightens his grip and pulls Merlin forward with it, Merlin breaks his mouth away with a gasp.

“Arthur,” he breathes, and the way he says it sounds like it’s the start of something longer, but he never continues, only panting wordlessly against Arthur’s mouth. His eyes squeeze shut and Arthur yearns to kiss him again, to sink them both back into that mindless thrill of pushing and pulling and tasting, but he waits. It’s reassuring, at least, that Merlin’s arms are still locked around his neck, and they’re close enough still to preserve this delicate bubble of proximity; this isn’t over just yet. When Arthur starts to soothingly stroke Merlin’s flank, Merlin’s mouth closes as he swallows, and he presses his forehead to Arthur’s—as if trying to get closer and hold him at bay all at once. A moment later, Merlin’s fingers are unfurling in the soft hair at Arthur’s nape, then tightening and tugging, guiding him forward again.

The kiss lasts longer this time, the desperate heat of before mellowing. Arthur strokes Merlin steadily over the long planes of his back and sides, while Merlin rocks distractedly into the caresses. Arthur is distracted too. Merlin’s hands gently tugging his hair, rubbing his scalp and cupping his neck are blissfully good; it’s difficult to concentrate on anything but enjoying those touches and willing them not to stop.

The pleasure of it is drugging; their kisses become slower, less focused, until Arthur can’t hold himself up over Merlin anymore. Instead he tucks his face in against Merlin’s neck, pressing his lips to the prickly edge of Merlin’s jaw as Merlin continues to comb his fingers through Arthur’s hair and stroke in an endless circuit around his neck, shoulders and back. With their bodies still flush and legs slotted together, Arthur finds himself very warm and profoundly comfortable. Before he knows it, he’s fallen asleep.

*

Arthur’s woken by the cold. The tips of his fingers and toes and nose ache steadily. The first deep breath he takes turns brittle in his chest, the chill catching sharp edges against his throat and making him cough harshly. He sits up to get his breath, and once that’s done he’s able to take better stock of the situation: Merlin’s not in the tent.

Possibly, that’s for the best, because when Arthur remembers the night before he’s glad he’s alone. Surely that didn’t happen, couldn’t have happened. He shares barbs with Merlin, not kisses; and when they touch it’s either in impersonal service or brusque acknowledgement—not lingering, or warm, or tender.

He presses the heels of his palms to his closed eyes then drags his hands over his face. Something’s bumbling around blindly, low in his chest, and Arthur gets the uneasy feeling that it’s waiting to be in Merlin’s presence again before it’ll settle.

Glancing around the tent, Arthur sees that Merlin’s clothes are gone from where they’d been draped to dry, but Arthur’s woollen underclothes are bundled up in a pile on the unoccupied side of the bedroll. Arthur grits his teeth, then unclenches his jaw to bellow, “Merlin!”

There’s no response, which is not uncharacteristic of Merlin by any means, but that doesn’t stop paranoia from lurching into Arthur’s belly. He huffs in irritation, extracting himself from the blankets and replacing their warmth immediately by slinging his cloak around his shoulders. Scooping up the underclothes, he crawls to the opening of the tent, yanking his boots on and buckling his belt before clambering out.

The world outside is a brilliant green and white, and Arthur realises just how mistaken he was to think that cold was what he was feeling in the tent. He’s tugged his fur collar up and is fumbling to pull his gloves off his belt before he’s even stood up straight. He scans his surroundings with keen eyes, though he can see at a glance that Merlin’s not anywhere near their camp. During the night a fog has descended, thick as Merlin’s pottage and just as easy to see through: the world ends in solid white a few paces from where Arthur’s standing. “Merlin!”

The grass crunches underfoot as he walks forward, each blade rimed with ice; the heavy frost has turned the ground into a crisp carpet of silvery green. It makes it even easier to see the path Merlin took out of the campsite, and Arthur stands at the edge of it and scowls. “Merlin!”

“All right, no need to shout.” Arthur whips around to find Merlin walking out of the fog on the other side of the camp. “You’ll wake up him under the mountain.”

Merlin looks damp and bedraggled already, and on seeing Arthur’s frown his faintly friendly expression shutters into an innocuous politeness that Arthur recognises from stately occasions.

“Wake up who?” Arthur asks. It comes out as a demand; Merlin’s presence has unsettled more than calmed him, and even if he can’t name any of the other things making his gut churn, he knows he’s angry about that.

Merlin shrugs, walking past Arthur to duck into the tent. “Nothing,” he calls out with what sounds like schooled blankness. “Just a story my mum used to tell me.”

Arthur strides to the tent and throws the armful of underclothes in without looking.

“Oi,” Merlin gripes. “I hope you’re not expecting me to wash these—”

“No, Merlin, you idiot,” Arthur bites out. “I expect you to not freeze long enough to find this damn flower.”

“But what about you?”

Arthur rolls his eyes; even knowing that Merlin can’t see him, he can’t help it. “Unlike you, I have a fur and wool cloak. And a leather jerkin. And shirt and trousers which must be at least three times as thick as yours, given how quick yours seem to dry each night in freezing conditions.”

Merlin doesn’t answer, but after a moment Arthur hears the sound of him moving about and the whisper of cloth as he undresses. Arthur turns his back to the tent and pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut before blinking them rapidly open again. “What’s your mother’s story, then?” he asks after another long moment of silence, striving to calm his tone enough to make it a peace offering.

It takes another stilted pause before Merlin responds. “It’s nothing,” he says again. “Just a fancy.”

Arthur grits his teeth, wondering not for the first time—or even the hundredth—why Merlin insists on making everything so difficult. “Tell me.”

Merlin emerges from the tent again, shooting Arthur a wary look before setting to work on untying all the fastenings holding it into shape. “She used to say there was a great sorcerer trapped under the mountains, frozen up in an eternal rage at those who imprisoned him. She used to warn me that if I shouted loud enough, it’d wake him up enough to free himself.”

Arthur huffs a laugh. “Well, I’m sure I wasn’t shouting loud enough for that,” he jokes. Then adds, as an afterthought, “It’s probably a good thing you didn’t tell me that before we left Camelot, or my father would be sending us on an entirely different sort of mission.”

Merlin doesn’t turn around, but Arthur sees his shoulders stiffen. The joke’s fallen flat, then. Perhaps things are worse than Arthur thought; irrevocably broken after last night, and now they have to spend at least the next week in close quarters until they find the damned flower and ride back to Camelot. They’d best make it ahead of the first snowfall on lower ground, or it’ll be far longer on the road.

“It wasn’t even this mountain range,” Merlin says after a moment, shaking the oilcloth out and glancing over his shoulder; Arthur comes forward to take hold of the other side and help him fold it. “I’m sure it’s just something she told me to quiet me down.”

“Perhaps she could give me some suggestions, then,” Arthur tries one last time.

Merlin glances up, shooting Arthur a faint smile. It’s the last that Arthur sees for the rest of the morning; they pack and saddle up in near-silence, and once they’re riding up higher into the mountains there’s no opportunity for conversation, anyway. The fog never lifts, pressing in uncomfortably on every side.

*

“Arthur!”

It’s only a few hours later when Merlin’s hail has Arthur reining his horse to a halt and turning around in the saddle. Merlin’s not even looking at him, though; his gaze is fixed to the side, down the steep, angular valley they’re riding alongside. The shrubby forest—twisted trees wreathed in mist—fills the groove of the valley and peters out as the slopes begin to rise, turning into a deep, luscious carpet of bracken, Closer to them, the slope is both steep and rocky, the fog thinned entirely. Arthur’s hunting sight is keen, and he picks up immediately on what Merlin’s called him to see: something’s moving through the trees carelessly, causing enough ruckus that the foliage shudders and whips back and forth at its passage.

As they watch, a buck bursts out of the sparse cover of the trees far below. It’s frantic, graceless with fear. It gets a few yards into the bracken when, out of nowhere, something five times its size drops on top of it. An instant later the buck’s terrified bellows echo up the mountainside, and the wyvern—for that’s what the predator is: slate-grey, scaled and spined, with tremendously sharp claws—tosses it in the air to resettle it in its maw. The gesture is almost playful, and the buck goes silent instantly, its body hanging at an unnatural angle.

The wyvern’s wings beat ponderously with the extra weight of the deer’s carcass. It rises slowly, banking to retreat over the limb of the mountain that makes the far side of the valley. With a shrieking cry like twisting metal, another wyvern swoops in, and then a third; the two snap at the first wyvern’s kill, bickering like gulls over a fish.

Finally they all drop out of sight in a tumble of wings and red flashes of raw flesh. Arthur lets out his held breath, slowly loosening his fist from the hilt of his sword. The wind has dropped for the first time all day, and the silence is almost eerie.

“I suppose they’re feeding up for the winter,” Merlin says from behind him. Arthur has seen Merlin’s reaction to gore enough times to hear the queasiness in his tone.

Arthur hums in agreement. “And the pickings at this time of year are probably rather slim. Especially somewhere this high. Clever of them to drive it into the open like that; it must be hard to make a kill amongst the trees if you’re hunting from the air.”

“I can’t believe you,” Merlin says, and Arthur doesn’t need to turn around to know the look on his face: downcast eyes and ridiculous pout, like he can lessen his peevishness with a considerable helping of clearly put-upon suffering. “They’re vicious predators who would eat us as soon as look at us, and yet you’re praising them?”

Arthur peers onwards down their path, estimating how long it’ll take them to get to the next summit, and just how much cover they’ll have once they get there. “What’s your point, Merlin? I won’t withhold credit where credit’s due.”

Merlin’s scoff is so sharp that it sounds like it might have done him an injury; finally Arthur glances over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. Merlin looks like he’s working himself up to a tirade, now, jaw tight and mouth down-turned, his shoulders tight. “If you only— If I—” He can’t even start properly, and Arthur doesn’t even have to roll his eyes before Merlin’s slumping like all the fight’s gone out of him just as quickly as it came.

Arthur feels a pang at the sight of his dejection, but most likely that’s because he was hoping for some bickering: anything to get back to where they were yesterday.

Merlin rubs his hand over his eyes, then meets Arthur’s gaze again, his expression unsettlingly desperate. “They’re hunting,” he says. “And we’re riding directly into their territory, with no cover. They won’t even hesitate—”

“Are you saying the risk isn’t worth the lives of the people of Camelot?” Arthur asks him frankly.

Merlin grimaces. “No, it’s not that—it’s just we don’t—it isn’t—”

“Now is not the time for cowardice, Merlin,” Arthur tells him sternly. Merlin’s vacillation between bravery to the point of self-sacrifice and inexplicable cowardice baffles him. And, judging by Merlin’s wretched expression, he’s not the only one troubled by it.

As Arthur watches him keenly, Merlin drops his gaze. “Of course not, Sire.”

“Good.” Arthur turns to face forward again, urging his horse on. “Stay close to me, now.”

Their mood only becomes more grim as they ride on. The screeches of wyverns carry on the wind. The bare, exposed summit of the next mountain lies ahead of them.

Before they leave the shelter of the cusp of the valley, they stop to eat their midday meal. The fog has cleared as they’ve climbed higher, and while it’s still sharply cold, the sky is a clear, crisp blue and the visibility is—unfortunately—perfect.

“There’s no way they’re going to miss us riding across that,” Merlin comments glumly, squinting in the white sunlight as he stares at the path they’ve been following to the summit. They’re both sitting on their rolled-up bedrolls in the icy grass—this high up and the frost hasn’t melted, even with the sunlight—and their breath clouds in the air.

“Don’t worry,” Arthur says with the usual hint of condescension, clapping Merlin on the shoulder. The gesture is automatic, and Arthur isn’t sure if he’s glad that he didn’t have a chance to second-guess himself before delivering it. “You’re really very fortunate that I’m here to protect you, otherwise you wouldn’t have even made it this far.”

“I know.” Merlin frowns instead of responding with the eye-rolling scorn Arthur was hoping for. “Arthur,” he starts up again after a long moment of tearing his food up in his hands instead of eating it—and then follows it with another choked silence.

Arthur just raises his eyebrows drolly. After a few more beats, Merlin looks up to see the expression; it only serves to make him duck his head again, though he smiles faintly.

“Thank you. For— I mean: you’re right.”

“Of course I am,” Arthur says automatically.

Merlin sighs sharply: a quick, deep breath in-out. His meal is practically shredded, and he sets it aside to rub his hands briefly on his thighs.

“About last night,” Merlin starts. His tone is even and not at all hesitant, and he looks up to meet Arthur’s eyes as he speaks.

Arthur curses the bravery he was questioning only hours before. He holds Merlin’s gaze impassively for as long as he can. When he finds the urge to glance down at Merlin’s mouth too compelling, he cuts his gaze away to stare blindly out towards the summit instead.

“It was nothing,” Arthur tries to declare firmly. The next comes out with more conviction: “A moment of weakness.”

Merlin watches him, frank and calm. Arthur feels his own jaw twitch in defiance. Merlin’s lips tilt in small smile.

“I know that you’re lying,” Merlin says softly, self-assured and faintly taunting all at once. “A prat of your magnitude would never admit to weakness.”

Resentment wars with angry panic, and Arthur isn’t sure he can keep his feelings off his face. He stands up abruptly, brushing crumbs off his clothes and snatching up his bedroll, then turning to his horse again.

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t go to such lengths to prove you have no faith in me,” he calls out after a moment or two—once he’s overcome an anxiety that Merlin might come up behind him while his back’s turned. “By speaking to me as if it's your last opportunity to every time we’re about to ride into peril.”

“I wasn’t—!” Merlin exclaims, and cuts himself off. Arthur hears him take a deep breath, and then say, with considerably less confidence, “Arthur—”

Arthur steps into the stirrup and hoists himself into the saddle again. “Hurry up,” he says, not looking down at Merlin. “Or I’ll leave you behind as wyvern fodder.”

Merlin huffs out an indignant breath and fumbles with his uneaten food while Arthur’s horse shifts its weight impatiently. Arthur tucks his heels into its sides the instant Merlin reaches for the pommel of his saddle, leading them onward towards the summit.

It’s not a question of if so much as when the wyverns will attack. With their macabre crowing sounding on and off most of the day, Arthur assumes their hunts are noisy affairs that he’d hear approach—if not see, against the clear backdrop of the stark winter sky. And, even as exposed as they are, they’re certainly at an advantage to see where the beasts will be coming from: it’s as if the mountain has once sported an enormous, conical tip that has since been lopped off; what remains is a broad, shallow crater cupping a frozen lake. The path circles around it, steep, semi-grassy slope dropping away on the outside, and on the inside an almost-sheer drop of shale that funnels into the lake.

The path they’ve been climbing deposits them on the south-east side. Merlin’s precious flower is on the western slope; they need to ride single-file on the narrow, precarious path practically to the opposite side before they can begin to descend again.

On the top crust of the mountain, there’s no shelter whatsoever, and the wind beats against them in unpredictable gusts, catching at Arthur’s cloak and sending it billowing out behind him, threatening to yank him right out of his saddle with the violence of it. And it’s viciously cold, too, piercing his clothes and making him half-heartedly wish he hadn’t donated his woollens to Merlin. Worst of all, the buffeting of the wind roars against his ears, eradicating all other sound.

He still hears Merlin’s shout, though very faintly, and that’s the only warning he has before something crashes into him with a force a hundred times greater than the wind.

The impact stuns him instantly, his whole body ringing with alarm like a struck bell, but he has the instinct, at least, to fold into the blow and fall away from his attacker. Arthur topples for what feels like an eternity, then hits the shale shoulders-first with enough force to drive all air from his lungs; his head slams back a moment after, and with that comes an agonising flash of light that blanks out the blue sky and the circling wyverns overhead.

He must only have been senseless for a moment; when he rouses he’s just starting to slide down the slope towards the lake. Below him is a shifting skin of sharp-edged gravel, and when he cranes his head up—hissing at the sharp pain stabbing through the back of his skull—he’s got an instant to see the heaving side of his horse before it crashes down after him. And that eases the sharp agony of Arthur’s foot still caught in the stirrup, but moments later comes the weight and panic of a terrified beast pinning him down.

Within the shelter of the crater, all wind noise is abruptly absent. Arthur can hear the vicious hiss-scrape of the shale grinding and sliding beneath him, the terrified snorting of his horse, and the screams of the wyverns above. The slope is too steep and Arthur’s still too stunned to stop his downward momentum; at any rate, the horse’s desperate thrashing prevents him from extracting himself from beneath it; and they tumble-slide downwards until they scrape to a halt on the icy shore of the lake.

Arthur’s eyes have closed again. He forces them open. He can’t move, but something in his head is reeling, and he can’t orient himself when all he can see is the unvaried blue of the clear sky. Tipping his head to the side is agony, and brings with it the view of a long, smooth expanse of cloudy ice; he's slid out a little ways onto the lake, and the ice burns against his raw cheek. He blinks and squints for long moments, trying to get it to stop tilting erratically, trying to will himself to lift his head properly and look back up the slope. His tongue throbs, and abruptly he is aware that his mouth is full of copper-tanged liquid; he spits ineptly and a flash of red mars the ice—he must have bitten his tongue when he hit his head.

“Arthur!”

Merlin’s desperate shout rings clear above the wracked panting of the horse and the pounding of blood in Arthur’s ears. Arthur works his jaw, trying to find his voice; then it’s forced out of him in an involuntary cry as the weight of the horse is suddenly unbearably magnified. Arthur turns his head away from the lake, and instead of clear sky this time there’s the piercing red gaze of a wyvern, its maw gaping as it gazes hungrily down at him. The horse screams, the wyvern’s savage claws slicing into it like a knife through over-ripe fruit. Arthur grits his teeth and wills strength into his limbs: strength enough to escape the crushing weight, to find purchase on the ice, to somehow reach his sword and stab it into the gullet of the beast. But none is forthcoming.

He can hear shouting. Not cries of terror or pain, but the booming shout of command. The wyvern lifts its head from the feast of Arthur’s horse to look in the direction of the sound. Arthur has only a moment to think, Merlin, you idiot, before the wyvern rears its head back, spines fanning out as it gnashes fitfully at the air and recoils. Then it backs entirely out of Arthur’s sight, and the weight on him recedes; he heaves in great, scraping lungfuls of air. The stench of the horse’s blood and shredded viscera is overpowering. Arthur coughs, then groans wretchedly as the jolt of it wrenches countless hurts throughout his body. He lets his eyes close against the stabbing brightness of the sky.

He flinches at the sharp sibilance of the shale scattering as rapid footsteps approach, but he manages to open his eyes again as Merlin finally skids to a halt next to him. Merlin crouches down and runs his hands over Arthur’s chest, his throat, his head. Merlin’s hand rests against Arthur’s cheek. When he looks at Arthur’s mouth, his body lurches and his eyes close for a moment. When he opens them again, they’re heavy with tears.

“Please, Arthur,” he says hoarsely. “Please, please...”

Merlin’s histrionics are enough to annoy Arthur into putting a little more effort into remaining conscious, but when he tries to say, I just bit my tongue, you idiot—addressing what is clearly the most immediate cause of Merlin’s dismay—he chokes instead, and has to struggle to turn aside to spit again. The worst thing right now is Arthur’s head; he has to close his eyes against the dizziness caused by that simple movement, which has Merlin gasping, “No, no—” until Arthur finally manages to look back up at him and muster a pointed glare.

“Merlin,” he says, voice scraping; the blood’s gone to the back of his throat, and he grimaces as he swallows it down enough to speak a little clearer. “Either get this bloody thing off me, or get away while you still can. Just stop weeping, for god’s sake.” He’s not sure what he did to deserve such a useless manservant, honestly.

Useless as he is, at least Merlin can obey some orders. Arthur squeezes his eyes shut against the wave of guilty relief when Merlin moves to try to shift the horse instead of—very justifiably—fleeing to save his own skin. Though, naturally, he’s completely inept, lacking the strength to move the carcass at all, let alone lift it and help Arthur out from under it. Arthur can’t see what he’s doing; in fact, Arthur can barely keep his eyes open, let alone lift his head enough to watch.

Merlin’s hands and forearms are steaming with gore when he comes back into view, and his eyes are wild. “I can’t,” he pants out. “Arthur, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

He doesn’t have a chance to finish before the heavy beat of huge wings sounds and a dark shape descends. Arthur sees the wyvern coming from directly above and gasps, “Merlin—!” in fruitless warning.

Merlin doesn’t scramble up and away like Arthur expects him to—he barely pauses. His fist grips tight in the soft leather of Arthur’s jerkin, and he whips his head around. His lips curl back from his teeth in a snarl, and he spits out thick, glottal words that Arthur doesn’t understand. His eyes flare gold.

The wyvern retreats, snapping angry, thwarted sounds at them. In a moment the sound settles to an unsettling, disgruntled trilling, and the liquid flame in Merlin’s eyes fades back to blue.

Whatever Merlin sees on Arthur’s face now leaves him more distressed than when he thought Arthur was dying. Arthur feels an incongruous rush of relief: Merlin’s survival instinct isn’t quite as stunted as Arthur thought it was.

Then again, Merlin’s been living in Camelot—under Uther’s nose, in Arthur’s household—for years, so perhaps not.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says again, choked. He lets go of his hold on Arthur and struggles to his feet. “Arthur, I’m— I can—”

He backs off, out of Arthur’s sight. Genuine panic flares in Arthur’s chest, which makes things become clear. It seems the fear of Merlin leaving him is stronger than the fear of Merlin being a… being a sorcerer.

“Merlin, shut up,” Arthur barks out, and Merlin stops babbling. Arthur has had enough of being stuck under the stinking carcass of his mauled horse. He grunts with the effort of trying to struggle out from underneath it, while Merlin’s sobbing breaths sound constantly from somewhere out of sight, before slumping back down again in defeat. He catches his breath and swallows down another mouthful of blood, before commanding, “Merlin. Would you get this bloody thing off me.”

Merlin’s breath hitches. Arthur has half given up on ever being free again when Merlin speaks: a single, incomprehensible word, and suddenly the weight on Arthur is lifting. Merlin’s still too far away to physically help, so Arthur concentrates on forcing his limbs to cooperate in the escape attempt. He manages to scramble backwards—even as a sharp pain stabs through his ankle—and momentum makes him slide a little way on the slick surface of the ice. The horse’s carcass slumps without Arthur under it, blood spilling out of it onto the ice.

Arthur manages to flop over onto his side and drag himself a little further away from the sluggishly spreading puddle of red. His head pounds, and he pants at the exertion. When he looks up, it’s to find Merlin has backed away even further.

Arthur needs to stand up, needs to face this on his feet, but he suspects his ankle won’t hold him. So he fumbles at his waist—eminently grateful for his thick leather gloves protecting his hands during the rockslide; his face doesn’t feel like it’s fared as well—finally locating and wrapping his hand around the hilt of his sword. Drawing it gives him strength in itself. He plants the point in the ice and hauls himself to his feet.

Merlin is staring wide-eyed at the weapon. As Arthur starts to shuffle forward, he turns and tries to run. Unfortunately, the ice underfoot means he takes a just few unproductive, out-of-control steps before slipping entirely and falling flat on his face.

“Merlin,” Arthur growls in exasperation, and lifts his sword to dig it in half a pace ahead, shifting his weight forward clumsily.

Merlin pushes himself up to his hands and knees and then to his feet again. He can’t seem to get his balance. His feet slip constantly on the ice, and his arms stir the air vigorously as he flails. He’d almost look like a very energetic drunkard, if not for his anguished expression.

Arthur takes another laboured step forward, and his own feet slip a little. He stops dead and holds as still as he can, his body tensing in dread of another fall.

“Would you just—stop,” Arthur shouts in frustration.

Merlin halts—at least, he stops trying to run, and instead turns, teetering; he wobbles enough to go down on one knee. But he’s facing Arthur, at least. And then he throws up his hand, palm out towards Arthur, and shouts out another word Arthur doesn’t understand.

He does understand enough to jerk his own arm up in an instinctual attempt to shield himself. It only results in his losing his balance and crashing, arse-first, to the ice. Pain slams through his body, and he doesn’t quite realise at first that Merlin’s magic hasn’t hit him. When he opens his eyes again, he finds he’s curled on his side, facing the lakeshore. A massive wall of fire is sweeping up the shale slope, at least four times as broad as the citadel gates and half again as tall. As Arthur watches, it dissipates into writhing ribbons of flame that shred finer and finer until they vanish entirely. The whole thing takes a matter of seconds. Through the residual distortion of heat, Arthur sees the wyverns beating frantically at the air, their wings crumbling into ash. They drop out of sight below the line of the summit path with agonised shrieks. All that remains of Arthur’s horse is a charred mound on the lake shore.

Heart hammering in his chest, Arthur swallows down the dizzying awe that’s risen thickly in his throat. “Merlin,” he gasps, levering himself back upwards slowly. He has to stop at sitting. His head hurts rather a lot. “Need I remind you that we are currently sat upon a frozen lake?”

Merlin laughs, startled; it sounds painful. “No, I had noticed.”

“Then kindly stop setting things on fire.” The horizon tilts again, and Arthur squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to force it still again. “Of course you’re just as incompetent with magic as you are with everything else.” He feels blindly for his sword, seeking the comfort having it in his hand brings.

When Arthur opens his eyes again, Merlin hasn’t moved, but he’s weeping again, his soggy gaze fixed on Arthur’s sword. “Are you going to execute me?”

Arthur grimaces. “Only if you don’t—” he begins caustically, but cuts himself off at the roil in his stomach. The taste of blood is still at the back of his throat, and the smell of burnt flesh acrid in his nostrils. He shakes his head, then regrets it; nausea really does rise as pain throbs throughout his skull. “Just… help me, damn you.”

Merlin crawls towards him at last, then stops in a crouch just out of reach. He lifts his hand ineffectually, then drops it again. His eyes can’t seem to fix in any one place, roving over Arthur’s body. They finally settle on Arthur’s chest. “Are you… Are you hurt?”

“No, Merlin, I’m at the very pinnacle of health,” Arthur says, scathing. As well as being in pain, his arse is going numb. The heat of the skirmish is receding and leaving behind it a great, shuddering coldness. When Merlin flinches at his tone, Arthur recants. “I bit my tongue,” he says, less acidic. “And hit—” He reaches back to touch tentative fingers to where the pain is radiating from, at the back of his skull. Just the lightest contact has him hissing through his teeth. “—My head.”

“And you’ve hurt your ankle,” Merlin adds. He’d not been so panicked that he didn’t notice Arthur was favouring it, then.

“Caught it in the stirrup,” Arthur explains ruefully.

Merlin meets his eyes at last, and though he’s still not smiling, there is some easing in the tight anxiousness of his gaze. “Gaius made me bring herbs and suchlike, they’re in my…” He trails off as he goes to stand, looking to the still-faintly-smoking shore. “…Pack.”

“Surely the wyverns wouldn’t have eaten it,” Arthur says. He can see no sign of Merlin’s horse, either. Which means walking back down the mountainside with an injured ankle. Fantastic.

Merlin’s expression is distressed. “No, I suppose it’s… Well, I hope it’s scattered somewhere down the mountainside.”

“We’ll need to find our bedrolls if nothing else; herbs won’t do us any good if we’ve frozen to death.”

Merlin ducks his head, breathing heavily as he stares down at the ice. After a long moment he presses his lips together and looks up at Arthur, though not quite straight-on. “I can make sure we don’t. Sire.”

Arthur blinks. Abruptly, the massive wall of flame Merlin had conjured isn’t simply awe-inspiring; it’s merely the tip of a mountain of potential. “Just what can you do, Merlin?” he asks, making sure to make his tone neutral inquiry rather than the typical droll humour.

Merlin swallows hard and looks at him directly at last, his eyes bright with intensity. “Anything. Arthur, anything you want—”

Arthur holds up his hand. Merlin falls silent immediately— Arthur can’t stop snorting in amusement at the oddness of that on top of everything else.

“Right, well, can you assist me in getting off this damn lake?” Arthur huffs at last.

Merlin frowns, mouth twisting anxiously, and stares down at his hands. “I—I suppose I could, but do you really want—”

“Your shoulder will do, Merlin,” Arthur says, exasperated. “Honestly, anyone would think it’s you who’s hit his head.”

Merlin checks Arthur’s ankle before helping him to his feet. Fortunately, it seems twisted rather than broken, though in the time that Arthur’s been lingering out on the ice it’s stiffened, making it even more painful to walk on than before. Every part of him seems to hurt: his tongue swollen in his mouth, back tender and no doubt bruised, shoulder wrenched, and head—god, his head…

Merlin hunches awkwardly to tuck his shoulder under Arthur’s arm, and they hobble painstakingly slowly across to the far side of the lake, since unfortunately the closer side is rather more thawed than it was when they’d last traversed it. Climbing the loose-shale slope up to the path again is the hardest part—even harder than all the tense moments where Merlin’s clumsiness had them slipping madly and nearly falling on their arses again—and Arthur is panting and his head spinning by the time Merlin deposits him on the ground at the top. Arthur winces again at that, the base of his spine bruised from falling on the ice earlier.

He’s passed the stoic point of being hurt and is well into the petulant phase; he’s quite had enough of the pain and disorientation, now. Still, a part of him is grateful for the preoccupation—if he were hale and healthy, he’d have to think about what just happened, and probably come to some kind of decision.

Besides, Merlin’s obedience is something that he gets to enjoy rarely, though he could do with a bit less of the desperation haunting Merlin’s face.

Arthur doesn’t realise he has lain back on the bare dirt of the path until Merlin tries gently to lift his head; the pain of that is sudden and sharp, and Arthur’s eyes fly open, his hand flailing up to fend Merlin off.

“Sorry,” Merlin says, his ridiculous face crumpling and his eyes filling with tears, again. “Sorry, I was just—”

“Merlin,” Arthur says sternly. “It’s all right.”

“Right, yes, of course it is,” Merlin agrees brusquely, dragging his forearm across his face and sniffing wetly. “Let me just tuck this under your head, Sire.”

He eases Arthur’s bundled-up cloak between Arthur’s head and the ground, and Arthur has to admit that it does feel much better.

“You really shouldn’t sleep, Sire. Arthur?”

Arthur forces his eyes open again with some difficulty, his lids sticky. “Shut up, Merlin,” he mumbles. It really is much better when he doesn’t try to move or speak at all.

*

Part 3