Chapter 3
When Merlin opened his eyes again, the first thing he noticed was that they were not, in fact, at the bottom of a ravine.
Looking around, he saw the outlines of an unfamiliar path, cutting through moss floors and travelling across a flat field of large boulders and evergreen bushes. By the trodden moss-path, a small brook sang and allured with promises of fresh water. There was not even a mountain looming closeby, much less a ravine.
As soon as he realised the extent of his surroundings, Merlin jumped to life and desperately searched for Arthur. His head ached with the sudden movement, but Merlin pushed it back as he scrambled forwards, straining his eyes. Luckily, he found his king laying serenely in a bed of soft moss rather than crushed against one of the larger boulders. Standing up, Merlin knew his knee had taken a hard hit and was probably bruised (but luckily not broken), so hobbling, he made his way over to Arthur as fast as he could.
He crashed down beside the unconscious king (wincing as the impact reverberated through his damaged knee), his eyes desperately running across Arthur’s still body. With shaking hands, he reached out to check for a pulse, simultaneously placing his ear carefully against Arthur’s chest and holding his breath as he searched for a heartbeat. Merlin nearly collapsed when he heard the unmistakable thump of Arthur’s heart, and the fear that had seized him was alleviated. When he sat up again, he could barely see the slight rise and fall of Arthur’s chest, indicating he was still breathing and wouldn’t suffer any damage to the brain from oxygen deprivation (not that he has much of a brain in the first place, Merlin wanted to joke, but he found his sense of humour had not yet recovered from the sight of Arthur unmoving on the ground).
Breathing a sigh of relief, he then began assessing the damage. Blood had stained Arthur’s lovely blue shirt in a dark red, blooming from the long gash cutting diagonally across his chest from the left shoulder to right above where his belly button would be. The blood that covered his chest (and which still coated Merlin’s hands) had already dried, indicating that the wound was at least no longer actively bleeding out, but Merlin was only too aware that Arthur already had lost a lot of blood, and knew he would have to treat the injury fast to prevent infection setting in.
As Merlin sat contemplating how he would treat the wound without any of his supplies (cursing himself for not knowing more healing magic), Arthur began to stir slightly, the movement so small it almost evaded Merlin’s attention. But when he caught sight of Arthur’s hands clenching around the moss under them, he whipped his head around so fast that dizziness almost threatened to overwhelm him.
Arthur’s expression was guarded, his face stony as he pushed himself up on his elbows, intentionally or unintentionally pulling further away from the sorcerer kneeling next to him. His eyes never left Merlin’s as he slowly sat up, and despite his frigid exterior, Merlin could see the pain he had feared so much in those eyes. It stole the breath right out of his lungs, his own chest threatening to collapse around his pitiful, treacherous heart. He suddenly felt the urge to plead, to explain himself and beg for Arthur to forgive him – but his throat had constricted around his voice, and he feared any noise he would make right now would inevitably come out as a whimper. At the same time, another voice was growing in his mind, one that reminded him he had no right to cry or beg for forgiveness. He had hurt Arthur – betrayed him in the worst way. He was everything that Arthur loathed.
Merlin turned away from those accusing eyes, afraid the pain would soon be replaced by fury and hatred. His stare fell to where his trembling hands were painfully gripping his own aching knees, letting his body sag shamefully.
Still Arthur had not said a word. The silence was torturous, each passing second fuelling Merlin’s fear as he awaited his king’s judgement.
Arthur tried getting up again, a hiss escaping his lip as the movement pulled at the cut in his chest. Merlin’s head whipped up and he instinctively reached out to help him, but Arthur immediately held up his hand in a defensive motion.
“Don’t!” He cried out, his entire body tense. Merlin froze in midair, seeing Arthur’s guarded position and, even worse, the momentary fear that crossed his face before he could school his features back into a cold expression. “Just… don’t touch me right now.”
Merlin felt himself falling apart, but instead sat carefully back again, giving Arthur the space he needed.
Now it was Arthur’s turn to look away, cautiously taking in their environment and coming to the same conclusion Merlin had that this was certainly not the same place they had fallen.
“Where are we?”
“I’m not sure.” Merlin confessed, his voice coming out strained and shaking. He quickly tried to clear his throat. “It seems like we have landed… somewhere else.”
“Landed… somewhere else.” Arthur repeated, clearly having guessed that their relocation had not come about naturally.
Merlin hung his head again, an unspoken confession.
“You…” Arthur took a deep breath in, steeling himself. “You’re a sorcerer.”
Merlin shuddered as the accusation tore into his bones and weighed on his hunched shoulders. He nodded shakily, the confirmation barely a jerk of his chin. Arthur’s sharp intake of air made Merlin flinch and close his eyes.
‘Here it comes,’ he thought, ‘the anger; the betrayal. He will hate me now. Perhaps it will be better if he kills me.’
“Why?” The broken plea falling from his king’s lips wrenched Merlin out of his stupor, ripping his eyes open. The hurt was clear on Arthur’s face now, battling against the expected anger evident in his clenched fists and tense eyebrows.
The plea holds all the unsaid questions tearing through Arthur’s mind; demanding an explanation for the years of lying, how he could break his trust like this, why he would practise magic in a land where it was forbidden on pain of death – but also he was begging Merlin to tell him that he had not betrayed him, that he was still Merlin, that Arthur could still trust him.
Merlin hears them all.
“I was born with it,” I did not choose to betray you. “And I use it for you Arthur, only for you.” I am still yours.
He wants so badly for Arthur to feel his sincerity, to somehow fix something that had been broken the second he split the earth and swallowed the Essetirian knights whole. The second he had become something threatening, something ‘other’, to Arthur. Merlin kept his hands obediently in his lap even as he desperately leant towards Arthur, trying to convey that he was not dangerous – not to Arthur. Never to Arthur.
His golden king simply stared at him for a long while, his face conflicted in a way that reminded Merlin painfully of how Gwen had looked only yesterday (it felt like an eternity since now).
After a while, Arthur pushed back the painful lump that had settled heavily in the pit of his stomach, a determined mask falling over his face. Merlin looked helplessly on as Arthur was replaced by the king of Camelot.
“We have to find the knights,” Arthur decided, trying (and failing) to stand up. He groaned as his wound again began bleeding.
“Arthur, please!” Merlin yelled, reaching out his hands again before hesitantly pulling them back against his chest. “You’ll make it worse! Just let me bandage it.”
“I can do it myself.” Arthur muttered through clenched teeth, trying not to jostle his wound while trying to locate and rip off a part of his shirt which was not covered in blood.
Merlin huffed in annoyance, making Arthur look up from his efforts. He then ripped off a long strip of cloth from his own shirt, and visibly ignored Arthur’s protests as he hobbled over to the stream to clean the makeshift bandages, gathering a large handful of the green moss and washing off the dirt before limping back. He held up the cloth and the moss to Arthur, his eyes conveying the sorcerer’s uncertainty; he was giving Arthur a choice. The king swallowed hard, momentarily agonising over Merlin’s offer before he stiffly nodded once.
Merlin let out a relieved sigh, signalling for Arthur to lift his shirt up with a slight tip of his chin. Reluctantly, Arthur slowly removed his vest and then his shirt. His muscles were tense and his eyes on guard as Merlin first washed away the dried blood, careful not to touch his skin too much (his fingers tensing up whenever he failed to comply with this precept), and subsequently applying the moss to the wound to try and stave off infection until they could acquire some proper medical tools. Arthur’s stare followed Merlin’s movements intensely as he wrapped the bandages tightly around his chest. The occasional grunt of pain made Merlin look up and momentarily meet Arthur’s eyes before turning away again, chewing anxiously at his bottom lip.
Arthur didn’t know what to do. He felt so helpless as he watched the worry that was evident in (what he had thought was) his friend, painfully painting the features of the same face that he thought he knew. He recognised the fear lodged in the same blue eyes that had always been so bright with affection and mischief (but they had been golden as the earth cracked). Arthur missed his smile, he realised as he watched the manservant bite down on his own chapped lips – he missed his Merlin: the hopelessly clumsy and insolent manservant who would call him an ass to his face with a smirk. Not this quiet and obedient Merlin who didn’t even dare to meet his eyes.
Arthur mourned him as if he was dead – wondered if he had ever existed at all.
Was his Merlin just a lie?
As the strips of cloth tightened around his chest, Merlin removed his hands (Arthur could not help noticing how they trembled) and pulled away. Arthur had thought that once he was free of this proximity his body would relax, but the tension never left him, and he instead found himself wishing for those hands back; wanted them to reassure him. He immediately cursed his own weakness, harshly suppressing the thought.
“We have to get moving,” Arthur said, pulling his stiff shirt back over his head. He flipped the shirt so the bloodstain could be covered by his leather vest (the shirt collar pushed uncomfortably against his throat like this, but at least he wouldn’t alarm some random passersby). “We’re too out in the open like this. Essetir’s knights must surely still be on the hunt for us.”
Merlin nodded dejectedly, still not meeting Arthur’s eyes.
“There’s a small town a few miles down the road where you can rest and decide what to do next.” He said quietly.
“How could you possibly know that?” Arthur asked incredulously. Merlin turned his head away as if to hide his face. Oh… magic. “Right… yes, let’s go then.”
He finally managed to stand up with only a few grunts escaping. Testing his legs he found them to be slightly stiff, but reliable enough, and with the dizziness that had come from the bloodloss slowly subsiding, Arthur could walk without too much trouble. Looking around, he found that his sword (Excalibur, Merlin had called it, a sword he had pulled from a stone of all places) had fallen only a few steps away. Beside it he found –to his great relief– the small leather bag that usually hung on his belt. He put the sword back in its scabbard and hung the bag back on its designated notch, then turned towards the path forwards. He had however only gotten a few steps before realising Merlin had not moved to follow. The forlorn sorcerer still sat motionless with his face downcast. The image made something in Arthur’s stomach clench painfully, his mind reeling at the wrongness of it all.
“Merlin..?”
“Leave me here.” Merlin’s voice was barely a whisper, and just like that all of Arthur’s earlier efforts to harden and close off his heart broke so utterly he almost fell over.
“What are you talking about? The knights of Essetir could be here any minute.”
Merlin shrugged. “What does it matter? If you’re going to banish me, or…” he swallowed shakily, “have me executed anyways, what does it matter if i die here or in Camelot?”
The anger that had been simmering in Arthur’s chest, only kept down by his overwhelming grief, now bubbled up to the surface as he watched this unfamiliar Merlin cower before him, speaking as if he already knew what Arthur would do (as if even Arthur himself knew what to do).
“Do you think this will make it better?” Arthur nearly yelled as the anger shook his entire body. Merlin only flinched and closed his eyes. “Do you think letting yourself be killed will help? Do you really think I want you dead?”
Finally – finally, Merlin looked up and met Arthur’s eyes. The sorcerer’s own wide eyes were red-rimmed and glossy; Arthur could see his own grief reflected in them. The anger that had so intensely flared up just as quickly vanished as all steam seeped out of his body, leaving only the exhaustion.
“I could never hurt you,” Arthur confessed, suddenly certain of the sincerity of his own words. Whatever else he felt towards Merlin right now –anger, betrayal, uncertainty, loss– he was absolutely sure that he could not lose him, at least any more than he already had. And even though he could not trust him right now (not entirely; not as he had before), he still somehow knew that Merlin would not hurt him either. They had always protected each other – it was instinct; the only certainty he knew right now. “You’ve never left my side before. So if you want to help me, then just… don’t start now. At least give me the opportunity to be angry with you another day.”
Merlin’s stare was piercing, searching for something that made Arthur squirm and want to look away. But he held his gaze determinedly, and after a few seconds Merlin nodded weakly and moved to stand up, his legs wobbling slightly as he walked.
Arthur almost could not suppress the fond smile that threatened to reveal everything that was filling his chest when he saw Merlin’s awkward gait and the redness that was quickly spreading across his ears.
Almost.
~~~
Merlin had been right after all. After a few hours of walking in silence (Arthur torturing himself with the image of Merlin, tears streaming from his golden eyes as his world shattered along with the ground, with said golden-eyed sorcerer currently making himself scarce where he limped five steps behind) small houses began littering the road and the horizon, shaping up to become a comfortably sized Essetirian town. Not so small that it could be called a simple farming village, like Ealdor, but not so big as to be conspicuous. The sky was painted dark orange with the sunset, and Arthur looked around to find the sign that identified a small tavern which doubled as the town’s inn, inside which they could rest. Arthur cast a quick look back to where he could hear Merlin’s shuffling feet, but looked away before the sorcerer could register his attention.
Without further instructions, Arthur walked towards the tavern, relieved when he heard the familiar shuffle follow.
The inside of the tavern was surprisingly lively for a town of this size – it must be the townsfolk’s local meeting place. The tables were filled with men and women of all ages drinking and making merry, their voices steadily gaining in volume as everyone attempted to be heard over the rumble. A group of three younger men sitting by the corner window held their tankards aloft and sang what Arthur assumed was a local folk song, in a voice thick with both drunkenness and the Essetirian dialect.
Arthur walked to the bar where a middle aged woman with strong branching arms (almost as strong as any knight’s, Arthur mused) stood washing out empty tankards before refilling them, some drunkard grabbing the ale and tossing her a coin almost before she could set it down.
“What can I do for ya?” she asked Arthur, her voice somehow booming through the cacophony of laughter and song.
“I am in need of a room for me and my–” Arthur cut off sharply, cursing his own inattentiveness. Normal people just passing by don’t have servants you fool! “...companion.”
The hostess shot a look over his shoulder and spotted Merlin standing uncharacteristically timidly by the still-open door. Then she looked back to the foolish king with a raised eyebrow. Arthur felt his pulse quicken, but remained composed and unperturbed, praying that she would not catch onto his misstep. But the hostess simply looked back to Merlin again, before a knowing smile lit up her face.
“Of course, traveller,” she smiled, beckoning for them to follow her. “I have just the room available.”
She led them upstairs to a corridor with five doors, opening the third to reveal a surprisingly spacious room for such a small tavern, with a short table and two chairs pushed against a mud brick fireplace, a wooden chest lining the opposite wall, and… one bed. Granted, a bed meant for two, but nevertheless, one bed.
Arthur’s face began heating up and he turned to protest, only to see Merlin handing the hostess two copper coins, thanking her in a low voice. She gave him a soft smile in return before closing the door and leaving them alone. The king of Camelot stood awkwardly as he, ashamed, realised that he had not thought how they would pay for their stay without their supplies (including the royal coffers), and that instead his manservant had paid out of his own pocket (which, granted, Arthur reminded himself, was also derived from the royal coffers, including a not insignificant sum which he had won from the king in games of dice).
“I–”
“It’s alright,” Merlin quickly cut him off (which Arthur was almost relieved for, as he hadn’t actually known what he was going to say). “I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“No, Merlin–” But his manservant had already opened the door and made to leave. “Merlin!”
There was surprise in his eyes when he looked up at Arthur again. He saw how Arthur stood with one hand half stretched out, one foot in front of the other as if he would leap forwards at a moment’s notice, his face fallen and his eyes wide open and pleading. Once he realised his reaction he reeled himself back, but his hand still remained slightly outstretched even as his expression switched to confusion. Merlin’s eyes softened; after all the painful hours since they woke up, he finally gave Arthur the fond smile that he had missed so much, and he felt like a parched man stumbling into an oasis, or a storm-stricken sailor seeing the sun. Arthur felt his chest tighten.
“I’m just going to ask Mrs. Farah for some proper bandages and medicine,” Merlin promised, and Arthur took a few seconds to realise that Mrs. Farah was probably the hostess (how his manservant had managed to get her name in the short time since she had led them to this room was beyond him). “You’re still hurt, and even with my brilliant improvised patchwork, you still need proper dressing.”
Arthur scoffed unconsciously. It was just a low noise in his throat, but Merlin still froze for a second, staring at him with pensive eyes and looking like he wanted to say more. But instead he quickly dashed out of the room, the door slowly closing shut behind him. Arthur could hear the light-footed man nearly fly down the short steps before it was silent again.
And Arthur was alone for the first time since they had left Camelot.
Exhausted, he sank down onto the bed (which was unsurprisingly not as soft as the one he had in his own rooms, but he really was in no position to complain), but he winced slightly as he folded around his wounded chest. He let his hand stroke absentmindedly across the bandaged cut as if to soothe it, trying –and failing– not to remember Merlin’s trembling fingers brushing against his skin.
Merlin. His Merlin… a sorcerer.
The grief and anger washed over him again for a brief moment, but just as quickly as it had come, the moment passed and Arthur was left only feeling tired. He couldn’t even grasp the many questions roaming in his conflicted mind – the only word that came clearly was just ‘why?’.
Why why why?
He let his heavy head fall into his hands.
Just then, Merlin returned to the room carrying supplies in his hands. Whatever quip he was about to say died on his tongue as he saw his wretched king sitting on the bed. Arthur quickly raised his head and recomposed himself, but Merlin stayed silent.
He approached the bed as if Arthur was a wounded animal; moving slowly while making his intention clear, his eyes silently asking for permission. Arthur swallowed drily, then nodded. Merlin sat apprehensively down on the very edge of the mattress, trying to put as much space between himself and his patient as possible under the circumstances. He laid out some fresh bandages, a bowl of water with a soft cloth in it, a tub with some kind of transparent salve, and a needle and thread, then looked expectantly at Arthur. Immediately surmising his message (their inexplicable mental link evidently still intact), Arthur removed his vest and shirt again, cringing as the uncomfortably positioned collar rubbed against his Adam's apple.
Then Merlin began competently removing the makeshift bandages, picking up as much of the moss he had used as a temporary infection repellant as he could in the process. Once the bandages (or rather, strips of what had once been Merlin’s shirt, Arthur thought, trying not to let his eyes wander to the thin strip of skin now visible right above his waistline) were gone, Merlin picked up the cloth and began cleaning the remaining moss and blood off the wound with soft dabbing motions. The water was comfortably warm against his skin, and Arthur found himself closing his eyes and leaning into the soft touch. The careful hands kept devotedly washing away the dirt and debris of their journey until the water had turned cold.
“Sire,” Merlin whispered. “I have to sew the wound shut, it’s too deep. Sire?”
Arthur didn’t respond. He was so tired, and the room had become dark as the sun had set and given way to night. The soft glow of the fireplace flickered comfortably, and Arthur felt so warm and at ease in this moment, he did not dare to give it up.
“Arthur,” his eyes flicked open then, staring right into the waiting eyes of his manservant. Merlin’s eyes were expectant, but –for the first time in a while– not anxious this time. It reminded him of when they were sitting by the fire just yesterday. Arthur drank it in. “Did you hear what I said?”
Arthur grunted assentingly, to which Merlin experimentally gave the smallest indignant huff.
The stitches stung, naturally, but Arthur was a warrior who had been through much worse. He instead focused on Merlin’s practised hands, his long sturdy fingers holding delicately around the tiny needle and moving gracefully, making quick work of the long gash, even in the relative darkness of the evening. His hands were not trembling now. Finally, Arthur’s stinging skin was soothed as Merlin began gently applying the thick salve, the initial shock of cold soon amended by his warm hands.
They had gradually moved closer throughout Merlin’s ministrations, leaning towards each other as if they were magnets of opposite charge – two sides of the same coin. Arthur suddenly realised Merlin had at one point hesitantly placed one hand against his knee to steady himself, the touch so light he had not even noticed at first. But now that he had, he could feel the steady warmth flowing from the touch. He could only feel Merlin’s hands –fingers rubbing against his chest, a warm hand on his knee– and his gaze was transfixed on his manservant’s eyes, which were stubbornly focused on his work. The room was quiet save for the crackling fire and their breathing; Arthur could feel Merlin’s warm breath on his lips, making his skin tingle and his chest flutter (something he would attribute to the effects of the salve).
As Merlin began bandaging the wound again, he leant forwards even further to reach around the back, until his face was nearly flush against Arthur’s chest. When Arthur felt Merlin’s breath so close tickling his skin, he felt a shiver run up his back which had nothing to do with the evening chill. Merlin paused momentarily and looked up with surprise at Arthur through his eyelashes.
“Are you cold?” He asked hesitantly, his voice barely above a whisper. Arthur shook his head briefly, suppressing another Merlin-induced shiver.
Merlin seemed to realise he was still basically hugging around Arthur, and swiftly straightened again to fasten off the bandages, putting some space between them again. Arthur immediately felt cold without the presence. He swallowed thickly and finally looked away from his manservant, who had again moved away to the edge of the mattress and was fiddling with his hands in his lap. It felt as though some spell (hah) had been broken.
With a sigh, Merlin packed away the rest of the supplies and picked up Arthur’s blood-stained shirt.
“Go to sleep, sire,” He murmured, his voice still low in his throat. “I will wash and mend your shirt.”
“Why are you still doing this?” Arthur finally asked one of the questions which had been pressing on his mind, his voice a bit too loud in his confused desperation.
“Doing what?”
“Acting like a servant.”
Hurt flashed in his eyes, and Arthur felt the regret turn in his stomach. The sorcerer tried to smile, but it only made Arthur despair more.
“Because I am a servant,” he asserted. “And I’m happy to be your servant. ‘Til the day I die.”
Then he walked out, his shoulders hunched and his back tense, leaving Arthur to wring his own heart out in pain that had nothing to do with the cut on his chest.
~~~
When Arthur awoke after a few hours of restless sleep, it was still deep into the night, the tavern having finally become silent. The candles on the table had been extinguished, but a warm light was still emanating from the fireplace, the embers burning comfortably. Arthur looked around for Merlin, finding him (as he had said) on the stone floor by the fireplace, lying curled up on his side with his back against the bed. Even with the meagre lighting, Arthur could see the slight shivers going through his body, the cold stones probably swallowing up all his body heat.
Arthur sighed, sitting up slightly.
“Merlin,” he whispered. The shivering sorcerer did not respond, but Arthur could sense that he was awake. Slightly irritated, Arthur tried again a bit louder. “Merlin!”
This time, Merlin did turn. He even had the audacity to look a bit miffed, as if Arthur had ‘woken him’.
“You’ll catch a cold like that.”
“I’m fine,” Merlin whispered, turning back around as if to continue ‘sleeping’ (or as Arthur liked to call it: shivering with your eyes closed).
“I can’t have you catching a cold and holding us back, now can I?” Arthur tried jokingly.
“I said I’m fine.”
“Merlin,” Arthur groaned, steeling himself for what he was about to do by fixing his eyes on the window. “The bed is big enough for two.”
At this Merlin sat up and stared at Arthur. The red-faced king could feel his questioning stare, but kept his gaze firmly averted.
“...Are you sure?” His voice sounded so small that Arthur gave in. Meeting his eyes, Arthur shuffled to the other side of the bed and made an opening in the covers, emphasising his words.
Still Merlin hesitated, eying the outstretched duvet with caution and continually searching for signs that Arthur felt uncomfortable or forced to offer up the bed.
Arthur sighed again. ‘This frustratingly self-sacrificing cabbagehead.’
“Please.” Although meaning to sound dignified and regal, his voice came out as a whisper.
Merlin finally nodded, slowly rising from the floor and approaching the bed like a trap (with Arthur as the bait). But as soon as he lied down under the duvet, he shuddered sharply, curling up underneath so as to warm up as quickly as possible. He fell asleep almost instantaneously, the physically and emotionally draining day catching up to him.
Arthur remained awake for a bit longer, staring at Merlin in the haloed light from the dying embers. He looked so vulnerable like this. The frown that had stained his face and creased his forehead for most of the day had finally disappeared, making him look more peaceful than Arthur could remember him having looked in a long time. He looked so much like himself and at the same time not, missing the teasing mischief or challenging quirk which nearly always shaped his expression. Arthur could almost forget that he was a treasonous sorcerer now. But of course he could not escape the truth. It was an ever-present thought ripping him away from the familiar fondness he felt towards his friend whenever it resurfaced, drowning him in the grief that he never really knew him – that he was not allowed to know him.
The rational part of him knew this was his own fault – his and his father’s. Merlin was risking his life practising sorcery in Camelot where it was forbidden on pain of death. Uther Pendragon had burnt thousands of sorcerers (and people only suspected of sorcery) on the pyre. And even if Arthur was more cautious, only burning those who were a direct threat to Camelot, he too had sent people who used magic –people like Merlin– to their death. Logically, he shouldn’t even be surprised if his manservant was afraid of him. But the way Merlin had looked at him, how he allowed him to see him this vulnerable, all suggested that he trusted Arthur entirely, even with his life. But even though he could recognise all this, could understand Merlin’s reasons for keeping the magic a secret, he still could not help how the feeling of betrayal had wrapped around his heart.
And yet, his words echoed in Arthur’s head: ‘I use it for you, Arthur, only for you’.
Merlin’s breaths were slow and even. The fire had burned down to its last bit of heat, and the cold night air seeped in through the window cracks, sending another shiver down Merlin’s sleeping body. The frown returned to his peaceful face, and in an attempt to banish it again, Arthur (careful so as to not wake him) shuffled closer. Arthur was like a blessed furnace to the freezing sorcerer, who, still asleep, crept closer until they were inevitably pressed together, burying his face in his king’s neck. The soft breaths soon resumed, and Arthur, feeling content and warm (and incandescently safe) was lulled to sleep.