Chapter Text
Arthur’s sword clashes with his enemy’s and sweat pours down his face, mixing with the blood on his cheek from an earlier injury. He started off the battle strong, but has already fought six opponents, and the adrenaline is wearing off. His fighting gets less strategic and more desperate as the exhaustion weighs down his movements.
The enemy, a knight from Cenred’s kingdom, seems to notice the prince’s weakening state and smiles gleefully. The offending attacks become more brutal as Arthur’s opponent realizes his advantage, and suddenly Arthur is on the ground. He sees nothing but a deadly sharp sword swinging down towards him, and he has no way to stop it. Arthur winces, bracing himself for his seemingly inevitable death- when the weapon flies out of the opposing knight’s hands.
Arthur is no genius, but he is aware of the existence of gravity, and according to that law, the way the sword had fallen should not have been possible. Once he realizes this, anger floods through him, and he turns to his right for a split second- just in time to see Merlin.
Merlin, who has been hiding behind the trees like a girl.
Merlin, who has been silently watching, too scared and untrained to fight.
Merlin, whose eyes are currently burning gold.
By the time Arthur registers all this, his servant’s eyes have already faded back to blue, and the prince doesn't have time to think about it anymore. He jumps back to his feet, grabbing his sword before the enemy knight has a chance to recover his own, and swiftly shoves the weapon into his chest. It’s a quick death, almost surgical in its efficiency, and it's a procedure that Arthur has performed many times before. Still, he can't help the pang of regret that he feels upon pulling the bloody sword out of the dying man’s chest. He feels it every time. It's gotten easier over the years, but it never entirely goes away.
Casting these thoughts from his mind, Arthur looks around, muscles tense, ready to fight off any more of Cenred’s knights that might remain. Seeing none, he turns back so that his furious gaze lands on Merlin.
Merlin is staring at the battlefield, covered in blood and corpses, and doesn't notice Arthur’s glare until the prince is walking towards him. A beam spreads across the servant’s face as he prepares to congratulate Arthur on the victory, but it quickly fades when he sees the blonde’s murderous expression. Arthur watches as Merlin’s expression flashes from confusion to utter terror when he realizes why the prince might be so angry.
“Did you see-”
“Yes,” Arthur says shortly, preparing to shout at his servant, but Merlin talks first.
“Arthur, I-” he begins, before cutting himself off with a pitiful choking sound. He sniffs, looking at the ground, before fixing his master with a pleading expression. “Could you… will you just behead me? Please?”
Arthur’s fury quickly melts to horror. “What?!”
Merlin misunderstands the prince’s tone and flinches looking away. “I-I know you don't owe me anything and I know I lied to you and I'm sorry but could you please just behead me? I'm- I don't want to burn. I know sorcerers are supposed to be executed on a pyre, but I can't, please don't make me, Arthur, please. You owe me nothing, and I know that you must hate me, but please, don't let me burn.” Merlin’s face is full of more terror than Arthur has ever seen in his life, and he has to swallow down bile at the thought that Merlin actually thinks Arthur would do that to him.
“Merlin, I'm not going to burn you or behead you,” Arthur hisses, anger seeping into his tone. It's directed more at himself than Merlin, but the raven-haired boy still flinches before the words sink in.
“You're- what?” Merlin stammers, hesitant hope spreading across his features before being quickly replaced by fear as his mind supplies him with even worse tortures that Arthur might be envisioning for him as punishment.
“I'm not going to do anything to you!” The prince snaps.
“But… why were you so angry?” Merlin asks, looking more confused than afraid now.
“Because you're so obvious about it! I’ve known about your magic for months, and it's a wonder no one else does. You're so careless with your spells, it's a wonder you're not dead already. Have you no sense of self preservation?” Arthur rants, angry that his servant uses his magic in such a public manner. “Honestly, any person with half a mind would have realized that the way you made that sword fly my opponent’s hand wasn't natural! You must have some sort of a death wish.”
Merlin just stares at Arthur, mouth agape. “But- I- you- what?”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “How articulate, Merlin.”
Merlin still looks confused, and there’s a vague hint of fear twisting his features, but he still manages to squeak out an indignant, “prat.”
“Idiot.” Arthur retorts.
“Clotpole.” Merlin snaps back with growing confidence.
“Fool.”
“Bone idled toad.”
“What?”
Merlin just laughs, and despite Arthur’s struggle to look offended, he can't keep a smile from spreading across his face. Merlin responds with one of his famous grins, and Arthur realizes happily that despite Merlin’s lingering fear of execution and Arthur’s slight wariness of magic, they're going to be just fine.