It's still so strange to Arthur, sometimes, that he doesn't need to worry about Merlin any longer.

For six years now, it's been a constant, an absolute, this unwavering, this unyielding, this invariable, keep-Merlin-alive and don't-let-Merlin-get-hurt and don't-let-Merlin-die and don't-leave-Merlin-alone-in-a-fight and don't-let-the-sorcerer-near-Merlin and don't-let-the-bandit-near-Merlin and don't-let-the-visiting-asshole-prince-who's-got-a-reputation-for-beating-servants-near-Merlin, a constant, an absolute, unwavering, unyielding, invariable, and now—

—now—

—well, now, Merlin's immortal, for gods' sakes, and if Merlin gets hurt—not that he ever does, anyway, because nothing can even get within a hundred feet of him without getting hurled backward with one thrust of his hand—but if he does, if he does ever get hurt, he can just heal himself, or he can call his dragon—dragons, actually, dragons, it's plural, yes, there are two, stop gawping at me like that, Arthur—or his lady of the lake who is also apparently his wife, and no, Arthur is still not over that, and he absolutely shouldn't have to be, because I'm married is definitely the sort of thing you tell someone after you've known them for six years—

There's—there's a point to this.

There really is a point to this.

The point. The point is this.

The point is—and it stings, sometimes, in a selfish kind of way, it stings, and it's—it's not all right, is it, to think like that, to feel like that, it's not all right at all, it's bad and it's selfish, but it's true—it stings, sometimes, it hurts, sometimes, to think how Merlin doesn't need Arthur anymore, doesn't need Arthur to keep him alive, or keep him from getting hurt, doesn't need Arthur to stand up for him, to stand in front of him, to keep sorcerers and bandits and visiting asshole princes who have bad reputations with servants away from him anymore, and it stings even more to think that Merlin never really needed Arthur to do any of that in the first place, and Arthur tries not to think about it, because it's bad, it's selfish, he should be pleased, he should be thrilled, really, he should be elated, because Merlin doesn't need him, and he doesn't have to worry anymore, to fear for him, but it doesn't—it doesn't feel that way at all.

It doesn't feel like a victory.

Merlin's saved his life hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of times, gods, the day he arrived in Camelot, he saved Arthur's life, and Arthur wants to think—needs to think, he needs to think—that there is some semblance of equality to it, some semblance of balance, and if he ever saved Merlin from a sorcerer's spell or a bandit's sword, protected him from a violent, arrogant prince, if he ever saved Merlin so much as once, then it will be a little more even, and he thinks he can live with that.

Maybe it is all pride—maybe Arthur just doesn't like being in the debt of any man, and he knows that's what Merlin would think if he knew, that's what Merlin would say if he knew, but all of this doesn't really matter anyway, when you get to the heart of it, because Merlin doesn't know, and Merlin won't ever know, because this isn't something Arthur's going to tell him.

And anyway, even if Merlin did need him, once or twice, even if Merlin ever needed him at all, well, that ship's sailed, then, hasn't it? He doesn't need Arthur anymore.

Merlin doesn't need anyone anymore.

In the last week, Arthur's watched the man blow up a griffin, an actual griffin, all wings and claws and teeth, with just a string of his usual magical gibberish, and a blinding flash of blue-white light—he turned around and took down three dozen slave traders right after that, with nothing but a twist of the wrist and a flick of the finger, and the next morning, he healed Elyan of a heavily-bleeding head wound, battled a Sidhe (and won, and Arthur's still trying to wrap his head around that one—Merlin said he could hold his own, he never said he was blow-up-a-Sidhe-with-his-own-two-hands hold his own) and banished a plague, too, and there was that pack of wyverns the day after that, and the goblin, and the manticore, and the magical poultice that made everyone in the camp sick, but Merlin burned it down to ash and dust with a flash of his eyes, and more magical gibberish, and it didn't make him sick at all, and Arthur doesn't want to be impressed, because this is Merlin, after all, but damn, the man has yet to even break a sweat.

And that's just in the last week.

And if Arthur's being honest with himself, this is more than power. Here, now, all that he's seen, all that Merlin's done, all the griffins and slave traders and head wounds and Sidhes and—and everything, all of it, this is more than power, this is more than magic, this is more than sorcery and being a warlock and immortality and dragons in the plural, this is more than all of that, because Merlin is—Merlin is—

Merlin is invincible.

Merlin is infallible.

Arthur looks at Merlin, and he can't see the skinny, clumsy idiot who smiles too much and can't use a sword to save his life and trips over his own feet and can't even polish Arthur's armor without rubbing at his arms and wincing the rest of the day, Arthur can't see any of that anymore, because this, Merlin, he is the closest thing to complete invulnerability that Arthur has ever seen, and there's nothing left anymore of the old Merlin, of Arthur's Merlin, just this strange and distant and unknowable figure with magic and dragons and actual worshippers and a wife—

There's nothing but invincible, infallible, invulnerable, and it doesn't fit with Arthur's Merlin at all, and maybe—and the thought is unwelcome, and Arthur doesn't want it, and he tries to push it away, but it won't go anywhere, it won't leave him alone—maybe that's why you need Merlin to need you, because the old Merlin needed you, the old Merlin always needed you to save him and protect him and defend him from everything, and maybe that's why you need Merlin to need you again—

But—but that's not true.

Arthur doesn't like debts.

That's it.

That's all.

And he has to admit, as he watches the blinding pops and flashes and sparks of light, as Merlin and this unknown, enemy sorcerer start the fight—Arthur doesn't even recognize the old man, with his long white beard trailing all the way down to his waist and a gnarled wooden staff topped with a pulsing red crystal clutched in one ancient, withered hand, but he's just frozen everyone with some sort of—of spell, some sort of enchantment, one short sharp word and a beam of scarlet light from the end of his crystal-topped staff, and then Arthur is stuck, helpless, rooted to the spot, his boots frozen to the ground, and his body held fast, like an unwitting fly in a cunning spider's web, and everyone else is frozen, too, Leon and Gwaine and Percival and Elyan, like the spell has turned them all to stone.

Oh, but Merlin's fine, because of course Merlin is fine, and look, Arthur isn't jealous of Merlin's magic, not at all, not in the slightest, and he really, really means that—he doesn't want to have that kind of power, and if he's being honest with himself, Merlin is the only man in the world that he really trusts with that kind of power at all, but come on, he can't do anything? Can't even get in a thrust at the old man with his sword, or something? He's the king of Camelot, for gods' sake, and he's standing here like some sort of—of fragile maiden, too delicate and breakable to fight, and Guinevere, when I get back home, I will never, ever tell you a woman can't fight ever again, because this is really just humiliating.

"Arthur," Gwaine says, and honestly, the only possible upside in a situation like this is at least Gwaine's mouth is frozen, too, at least he can't talk, but apparently, even that isn't true, "Arthur, Merlin's losing."

"What?" Arthur jerks his eyes back to the fight—so he can't turn his head, but his eyes can move. Right. Not helpful.

But Gwaine's right—Arthur doesn't know much about spells and incantations and magical duels, he doesn't know much about sorcery in general if he's being honest with himself, but the old man's got Merlin on the ground, and Merlin struggles underneath him, twisting and writhing in the dirt, hands scrabbling desperately at his own throat, and it takes Arthur half a heartbeat to put the pieces together—he's choking Merlin, he's choking Merlin—and horror jolts through him like a shaft of lightning, and oh, gods, Merlin's not going to get out of this one, is he, Merlin's not going to make it—

And then the old sorcerer's flying away, flying backward, hurtling through the trees like a boulder from a catapult, and he slams to the ground with a long, low groan.

Merlin gets up on his feet again, and he's got his back to Arthur, he's got his back to all of them, but Arthur can still see it, plain as day, when Merlin holds out his open hand, and closes it, deliberately, into a fist.

The old man gives one last lurching, jerking spasm, and then he goes still.

Merlin is invincible and infallible and invulnerable again, and Arthur can't believe he ever began to doubt it.

The spell's lifted barely an instant later—the tension and strain in Arthur's every limb fades away, dissolves down into nothing, and his arms fall back to his side, legs wobbling a bit when he tries to step forward, to press on. Evil sorcerers are an every-week kind of deal here, and Arthur will be damned if one old man can stop him finishing out this patrol.

Gwaine whistles. "That was brilliant, Merlin!"

Leon looks like he's just had about three thousand heart attacks. Percival slumps forward, rubbing at his shoulders with a grimace, and Elyan puts a hand to the side of his head like the wound's coming back for another round.

Merlin turns around to look at them—

—and there's something wrong, there's something wrong, the old man did something to Merlin, the old man hurt him somehow, because there's blood gushing from his nose and running out the corners of his mouth and his whole face is turning grey and he's not doing any magic at all, but his eyes are still glowing radiant gold—

—and then—and then he falls. Just like that.

And it's like time's slowed itself down, like the world's stopped turning, like the earth's frozen on its axis, as Merlin goes down, and then—

—then Arthur goes bolting forward so fast, he can't really even feel it when his legs try to start up the shaking again, and he grabs Merlin before he hits the ground, and he gathers Merlin up in his arms, and he gives Merlin a little shake, because, come on, he's—he's Merlin.

He's Emrys.

He's going to open his eyes, right? He's going to open his eyes, and he's going to lift whatever curse the old man put on him like it's easy, like it's nothing, or he's going to call his dragons or his lady of the lake, and in ten minutes, he'll be up and about again shouting more magical gibberish and blowing up griffins and taking down slave traders and healing head wounds and battling Sidhe and winning—

Except that Merlin doesn't open his eyes.

Merlin doesn't open his eyes at all.

His head falls limply back on Arthur's arm, mouth slightly open, breathing heavy and jagged, like he's got a knife in his lungs, and his eyes stay closed, and that is not how this is supposed to work, because how is Merlin supposed to lift the curse, how is Merlin supposed to undo the magic, how is Merlin supposed to call the dragons or summon his lady if he's not awake to do it?

Come on, Merlin, Arthur thinks, and he'll never—he'll never be selfish like that again, he'll never want Merlin to need him ever again, he'll never, ever wish Merlin was a little less powerful, a little less magical, a little less Emrys and a little more Merlin, he'll never wish any of that again if Merlin just opens his eyes and sits up and heals himself the way he does, the way he always does, because he's invincible, infallible, invulnerable—

—but he doesn't.

Arthur struggles to keep calm, to stay steady, to stand still amid the storm of fear roiling inside him, because Merlin is going to be all right. He's Merlin. He's going to be fine. There isn't any need to worry about him.

When will he learn that he doesn't need to worry about Merlin any longer?

"Let's turn back," he says, at last. "We'll take him home to Gaius, and we'll—we'll come back, and finish the patrol."

Arthur doesn't think he's ever cared less about a patrol in his life, but he tells himself Merlin is going to be fine, and he doesn't need to worry about Merlin any longer, and Merlin can take care of himself, because Merlin is Merlin, and he's invincible, infallible, invulnerable.

Except, Gaius' reaction is not what Arthur expects at all.

Fear, he thinks, the hand-wringing, gut-clenching sort of fear, because Merlin is bleeding out through his mouth and nose and badly cursed, and maybe dying, but Gaius takes one look at the man he calls a son and just raises his eyebrow.

"Oh, just put him on the cot over there," he says, indifferently, and flips to the next page in his book.

Arthur actually almost drops Merlin's limp form in his shock. "But, Gaius," he says, "he's bleeding."

"Yes, that's normal," Gaius says absently. "The cot, please, Sire."

"Normal?!" Arthur does put Merlin on the cot, only because he's afraid he'll really drop him this time if he keeps holding onto him. "Bleeding—bleeding from the face is normal?"

"You're a physician, aren't you?" Gwaine bellows. "Blood coming out is not normal! Blood is supposed to stay on the inside!" He pounds his fist on the desk, shattering a potion bottle. He's apparently taking Gaius' unconcern as a personal insult. "That's physician one-oh-one!"

Gaius brushes away the broken glass. "Sir Gwaine, I have a patient, and I would appreciate it if you didn't carry on so. Now hasn't Merlin told you?"

"Told—?" Arthur echoes, and he looks from Merlin, sprawled on the cot, blood still dripping sluggishly from his nose and mouth, to the old physician sweeping up the shards of glass, "Gaius, this is—this is a sorcerer thing, isn't it?"

Gaius looks up from the glass. "So," he says. He closes his book. "So, Merlin hasn't told you?"

"No," Arthur shakes his head, "no, I've never—I've never even seen this before, Gaius, what's wrong with him?"

"Nothing is wrong with him, Sire," Gaius says calmly, and sets the book down on his desk with a small thump. "Well." He frowns. "He's an idiot, and I fear that's incurable, he's a foolish, foolish boy who should certainly know better by now, but he isn't in any sort of crucial danger."

"What do you mean? What is it?"

Gaius plucks another piece of glass from under a stack of papers. Gwaine guiltily takes it from him.

"Magical exhaustion," Gaius says simply, like that answers everything.

"Magical exhaustion." Arthur repeats, hesitantly, and he tries hard not to make it sound like a question.

"What the fuck is that?" Gwaine has no such qualms.

Gaius sends him a sharp look. "Magical exhaustion," he says, a bit frostily, "is nothing more than a severe overuse of one's magic. Not uncommon, mostly seen in small children unaware of their limits."

"Overuse?" Arthur echoes. "But it's Merlin."

"Is it even possible for Merlin to overuse his magic?" Elyan asks.

Gaius' eyebrow hitches up a little higher. "Certainly. He does it rather frequently, if you must know."

"Frequently?" Arthur gapes at Gaius. "But—but it's Merlin!"

"You said small children," Elyan says, "and Merlin's not exactly a small child, Gaius."

"That's debatable," Arthur mutters, on instinct.

"Merlin's magic is a limitless and eternal resource," Gaius dips his head, "and it will never run out. It is not something he can lose, not something he can use up. But even Merlin's magic has its breaking point. Near-constant use with no opportunity for rest, or a number of very powerful spells performed rather close together…"

Arthur feels sick. A severe overuse of magic and near-constant use with no opportunity for rest and a number of very powerful spells performed rather close together and even Merlin's magic has its breaking point—

Merlin is not invincible.

Merlin is not infallible.

Not at all.

"The griffin," he says, quietly, except it feels like there's something hard and heavy stuck in the back of his throat, and he has to stop and swallow before he can keep going, "and the—and the wyverns—the slave traders—"

Gaius' eyebrow jumps again.

"The goblin," Gwaine puts in, pale as a page from one of Gaius' books, "the manticore, a-and the Sidhe—"

"My head!" Elyan puts a hand to his temple. "And that plague…"

"The poisoned poultice," Percival shakes his head, "the sorcerer—"

Gaius' eyebrow is at its highest point now. "Are you attempting to tell me," he says, in this low and steady voice that is somehow worse than the loudest roar or the shakiest whisper, "are you all attempting to tell me this idiot boy banished a griffin, an unspecified number of wyverns, a goblin," he gets up from his chair as he talks, and his voice rises with the rest of him, stronger and stronger until it's deafening, a ringing reverberation in Arthur's ears, "a manticore, a Sidhe, a plague—?"

"Gaius, I—" Arthur shakes his head—the one time Merlin really did need him, and he's—he's failed. Merlin needed him, and he didn't—he didn't— "Gaius, I swear, if I'd known, if I—" He swallows. "I would never have let this happen, Gaius. Not if I'd known."

Gaius' old eyes soften. "I know, Sire," he says, heavily, and pats Arthur reassuringly on the shoulder. "I know. But Merlin's only human, no matter the strength of his magic. And that will not change."

Invincible, infallible, invulnerable. The words run through Arthur's head for the thousandth time, and he can't look Gaius in the eye anymore. Because he's right—Merlin's only human, no matter the strength of his magic, and—and I forgot that, Arthur thinks, with a jolting swell of sickening shame, I forgot that, I told myself he was too powerful to take down, too powerful to stop, too powerful to still be a person—

"I'm sorry, Gaius," he says in his smallest voice.

"We'll—" Gwaine glances over his shoulder at Percival and Elyan. "We'll look after him better next time."

Percival nods emphatically.

"We will, Gaius," Elyan says solemnly. "This won't happen again."

Gaius' eyebrow shoots right back up again. "It has been happening for six years now, Sir Elyan, in spite of my best attempts to prevent it," he says. "What makes you think it will be any different now?"

"Because," Arthur says, and he doesn't even stop to think about the words before they leave his mouth—it's instinct, it's reflex, it just happens, "because if he tries, I'm going to put him in the stocks."

I shouldn't have said that, Arthur thinks, automatically, I shouldn't have said that because Merlin's the king of the druids now, and also he's a dragonlord now, and he's immortal now and he's married to the lady of the lake and he's the most powerful warlock in the world, invincible, infallible, invulnerable—

And then Gaius laughs.

And for the first time in weeks, in months, Arthur looks at Merlin, and he looks—so small, so frail, so vulnerable, on that table, with the blood on his face, and the little hitching breaths leaving his mouth, and his head turned to the side, and there's no magic here, there's no Emrys, it's just Merlin, just Merlin who's clumsy and too skinny and smiles too much and he still can't use a sword to save his life, he can take a man down without even touching him at all, but he can't use a sword, and isn't that just so Merlin, and this, magic, Emrys, power, none of it ever made Merlin any different at all, did it, none of it ever—none of it ever took Merlin away from him.

"You do that," Gaius says, softly, but there's still the barest trace of laughter coloring his voice, and there's still a smile on his face, "you do that, Sire."

Gaius says it's best to let Merlin sleep, so Merlin sleeps.

"It's best to let his magic rest," Gaius explains, as he drapes a quilt over Merlin, "and it's best for his magic to seek recovery through natural means. Adding more sorcery to the mix will only make it worse." He pulls the quilt up to Merlin's shoulders, and tucks it around the skinny, crumpled form, and the look on his wrinkled old face is so full of love, Arthur almost feels as if he's intruding on something personal, something private.

"Thank you, Gaius," Arthur says, impulsively, "thank you. You've always looked after Merlin," he adds, when the old man looks at him, "you've always looked after him, and—and I—"

"He's very dear to me, Arthur," Gaius says, softly, and there is something in the way he's dropped all titles, all pretense, that tells how Arthur how much this moment means. "The greatest joy in my life. His power is beyond anything I have ever seen, and yet—" he smoothes Merlin's dark hair with a wrinkled hand. "—and yet, I fear for him."

"As do I," Arthur says, quietly, and he is startled by his own honesty, in this moment, he is startled by how much he means it, as he stands in the silence and watches the last of the hard, tired lines in Merlin's face relax back into nothing at Gaius' gentle touch. "As do I."

"Finally," Arthur says, when Merlin opens his eyes, before the idiot can even open his mouth, "you certainly took your time, Merlin."

Merlin blinks. Even with the last of the blood cleared off his face—Gaius cleaned him up after he finally stopped bleeding—he still looks awful. There's a kind of exhaustion clinging to him closer than his own clothing, closer than his own skin, and it shows in every motion, every breath. "What?"

"You've been lazing about here for ages," Arthur tells him. "Gwaine's got a petition going round to change your name to Sleeping Beauty."

Merlin's pale cheeks tinge pink. "How long have I been asleep?" he asks, and glances to the window.

"Hours," Arthur says. "Gaius said to leave you to it."

Merlin scowls. "He shouldn't have let me sleep."

"Really, Merlin, if you insist on fainting like a complete girl, what else do you expect?" Arthur has to bite his lip so he doesn't smile. He's missed this. How long has it been since he's joked like this with Merlin? How long has it been since he's let himself tease Merlin in all the ways he normally would? He should never have let the magic build such a barrier between them.

Merlin's scowl deepens. "Any reason you're acting like you've got hit on the head, or is this just my lucky day?"

Arthur's smile fades. He can feel it as it falls away, as it falls from his face. Any reason you're acting like you've got hit on the head, because this—this isn't—

It isn't—it's not funny anymore.

"Merlin," he says, "I'm sorry."

Merlin arches a brow.

"I shouldn't have—I didn't—" he sort of stammers it—I'm sorry I was such a prat that I thought your magic meant you weren't an idiot, or perhaps an I'm sorry I made the mistake of thinking you had a self-preservation instinct somewhere in that idiot head of yours—no, he doesn't—he doesn't want to do that, he doesn't want to tease. He doesn't want this to be a joke. "I'm sorry," he says, finally, and he leaves it at that. "I know I haven't been the same since—" —since you turned into an all-powerful warlock with druid worshippers and dragons in the plural and a wife, but that's not right, because that makes it sound like Merlin's fault, and for the first time in weeks, in months, Arthur can finally see that it isn't, he can finally see that it never, ever was. "—since your magic."

Merlin's brow goes even higher. Bet he learned that from Gaius. "Well," Merlin says, at last, and shrugs a little, "it was a lot to take in."

And isn't that—isn't that Merlin, isn't that just so Merlin, and how could Arthur ever have thought, even for a second, that magic could take him away—?

"Yes," Arthur says, because this is Merlin, isn't it, and he's done acting like it isn't, "the idea that you're actually useful? Took me a bit, that one."

Merlin looks at him, and for half a second, Arthur thinks, I've pushed it too far, things are different now, even if the magic doesn't make it different, things are still different—

—and then Merlin smiles.

"I'm not surprised," he says. "Lots of things take you a bit."

And if Merlin didn't look so pathetic, Arthur thinks he'd toss one of Gaius' books at the grinning idiot. "Shut up, Merlin," he settles on instead.

Merlin absolutely beams at him, and Arthur thinks there is something seriously wrong with this idiot if people telling him to shut up gets that kind of smile out of him, but he's smiling, and that's—that's the important thing. Isn't it?

Arthur doesn't think he's seen Merlin smile—really smile—in weeks.

I messed up, he thinks, with a pang, I really messed up in all this.

"So," he says, seriously, "magical exhaustion."

Merlin makes a face. "Happens."

"I didn't know it could."

"Neither did I, until it did."

"This wasn't the first time, though," Arthur says—it's been happening for six years now, in spite of my best attempts to prevent it— "was it, Merlin?"

"No." Merlin doesn't try to lie, he doesn't try to deny it, and Arthur counts it as a victory, if a small one.

"Gaius seems to think it's mainly in children."

"It is," Merlin says.

Arthur raises his eyebrows. "Well," he says, "I suppose not."

"I suppose."

Arthur counts to ten before he decides Merlin isn't going to speak again, and also, that his idiot servant is being deliberately unhelpful. "Gaius seems to think it's mostly because a sorcerer's too young or inexperienced know their own limits."

Merlin nods. "That is what Gaius thinks."

Arthur runs out of patience. "Why would you do it, then? I think we both know you've got the experience to know when to stop!"

Merlin's brow wrinkles. "I had to do something," he says, like it's obvious, like Arthur's an idiot, "there was a griffin! You can't kill a griffin unless you've got magic!"

All right. Fine. Fine. That's—that's a good point. Arthur's not going to admit it's a good point, or anything, but. But. It's a good point. "And the rest of it?" He raises his eyebrows. "Pretty sure you don't need magic to deal with slave traders."

"You were outnumbered," Merlin says, impatience edging his voice. "You weren't going to beat them."

Another point Arthur's got no plans to concede. "Elyan's head?"

"He was hurting. He was in pain! We don't know that he would have survived the trip back to Camelot! And don't," Merlin practically snarls, when Arthur opens his mouth to go on, "don't you even start on the Sidhe! Let me know how it goes when you try to go against a Sidhe with a mortal sword. Oh, wait, you'll be dead."

Arthur ignores him. "The plague. Did you—did you really need to—?"

"People were dying in that village, Arthur," Merlin says, "and by the time Gaius got there, by the time he found a cure, they all could have been dead."

"You could have slowed it down, or something, then, couldn't you?" Arthur's not actually really sure about that—he doesn't know as much about magic as he probably should, at this point, all things considered, but it sounds like a good argument all the same. "You didn't have to go and heal every single one of the sick—!"

"Yes!" Merlin yells right back at him. "Yes! I did!"

"If you'd just done what you could to keep them alive—"

"I'm done doing what I can!" Merlin spits the last three words scathingly from his mouth, like they are something obscene, something he wants to recoil from. "I'm done just—just keeping people alive, just doing—doing things like this, just little—little bits and pieces, little shards, I'm done! I'm done turning a blind eye and looking away and pretending I can't help! Well, I can help! I can!"

"I know," Arthur says, reflexively, because of course Merlin can help, of course Merlin can save people, that's sort of what he does, isn't it? He saves people. As far as Arthur's seen, Merlin saves everyone, from the richest royalty to the poorest beggar, and that makes sense, now, doesn't it—?

"I'm done letting people die when I know I can save them!"

"I know," Arthur says, again, heavily, "I know." He scrubs a tired hand down the side of his face, callused palms scraping roughly against his cheek. "But you can't save everyone, Merlin. You just can't."

"I know that," Merlin says, at once, "you think I don't know that? I know I can't save everyone, I know that, I know I can't just wave my hand and make everything all right again, I know that, but I have to—" he drags in a breath. "I have to try."

"Even if you've got to collapse like an overemotional maiden every few days?" Arthur's surprised to hear there's no real malice behind his own words.

Merlin reddens a bit. "I'm finally in a place where I can help, Arthur. I'm finally in a place where I don't have to—to pretend I can't when I know I can, I'm finally in a place where I can help anyone, from anywhere, with anything, and you can't—" he shakes his head. "You can't ask me not to do that. You can't. I won't stop. I won't stop, not for you, not for anyone."

"No," Arthur says, tiredly, "no, Merlin. I'm not going to ask you to stop."

Merlin nods, a short, sharp jerk of the chin.

"But I'm not," Arthur adds, "I'm not going to let you put yourself in this state again. No matter what."

"Let me?" Merlin narrows his eyes.

"I mean it, Merlin," Arthur says sharply. "You can't burn yourself out looking after everybody else. If this happens again, if this happens even once, if I even hear a hint that you've done this, I'll—"

—put you in the stocks, is the end of that sentence, or at least, it's supposed to be, but Arthur never actually gets there, because I can save people, I can help them, you can't ask me to stop—

"Merlin," he says, suddenly, "I think it's time the court of Camelot took on a few more sorcerers."

"What?"

"Think about it!" Arthur almost cuffs Merlin on the back of the head, but the idiot still looks a little like if a strong gust of wind blew through here right about now, he'd collapse all over again. "That will help, won't it? Everyone's asking you to help with everything magical, aren't they? Griffins and wyverns and goblins and Sidhe, and I'm not saying," he adds, quickly, and raises a hand when Merlin opens his mouth, "I'm not saying you can't handle it, but it's a bit much for one man, don't you think?"

Merlin chews his lip. "I don't like it," he says. "How do we make sure they're not out to kill you?"

"Well," Arthur says, "that's where you come in, I suppose. You can tell an evil sorcerer from a good one, right?"

"Oh," Merlin says dryly, "yes. Of course. How did I forget? We're color-coded, you see, the evil ones wear red, and the good ones—"

Arthur pushes Merlin off the bed.

It's still so strange to Arthur, sometimes, that he still needs to worry about Merlin.

It's a constant, an absolute, this unwavering, this unyielding, this invariable, keep-Merlin-alive and don't-let-Merlin-get-hurt and don't-let-Merlin-die and don't-let-Merlin-overuse-his-magic and keep-an-eye-on-him-in-a-fight and back-Merlin-up-if-the-sorcerer-gets-near-him and back-Merlin-up-if-the-bandit-gets-near-him and don't-ever-ever-ever-make-the-mistake-of-thinking-Merlin-is-invincible-infallible-invulnerable-again—

Because Merlin's immortal, and he can heal himself, and he's got dragons in the plural that can heal him, and his lady of the lake can also heal him, and his name's also Emrys and druids worship him and he's got power beyond anything Arthur's ever seen, but he's still Merlin, and Merlin's a bit of an idiot who can't use a sword to save his life and trips over his own feet, and Arthur wouldn't have it any other way.

"This druid, then," Arthur says, as Merlin half-drags him through the corridors, "you don't think she's got any malicious intent toward the kingdom?"

"If she's got any malicious intent in her entire body, Arthur, I'm a bunny," Merlin says, and rolls his eyes.

"I see the resemblance," Arthur says. And trips over nothing. "Merlin!"

Merlin pulls them to a skidding stop outside a bolted door. "All right, she's got some eccentricities, and she's a bit old, but she's really nice, very gentle—" he unbolts the door, and steps inside.

The old woman waits inside, in the center of the chamber, arms wrapped round herself, body draped in a long, dark robe, her hood pulled back to reveal her withered face, wrinkles and lines etched deep in her ancient face, scraggly grey hair pinned up on her head.

"My Lord!" she says, the minute her eyes lock on Merlin, and she drops to one knee in a bow.

"Oh," Merlin's face turns red, "no—please, Finna, don't do that, we talked about this—"

"Gwaine is going to have a field day with her," Arthur says. And then he has to laugh, just thinking about it. Between the two of them, he'll be able to fry his morning eggs on Merlin's flushing face inside a week.

"Shut up, Arthur," Merlin hisses.

Yeah.

Merlin's still Merlin.

And Arthur wouldn't have it any other way.

Notes: Sequel to Secret, and prequel to Hug! Look, guys, this is just. gonna be a series now. apparently. I really do need to get better at writing Arthur, I just don't have a good grasp of his character at all, whatsoever, most especially in how he relates to and interacts with Merlin, and I really want to get better at that. I really do. I mean, I want to get better at writing all the characters, one day, but I'm focusing on the major players first and working my way down because that honestly just sounds easier.

Anyway, this whole thing spawned because, as people have pointed out before, if Arthur ever found out the full truth about Merlin, he'd go around thinking his servant was invincible, or something. After I took another look at Secret, I realized how easy it would be for Arthur to think Merlin completely unstoppable and all-powerful, how easy it'd be for him to link Merlin with magic and not much else, how easy it would be for him to feel a bit distant and awkward around Merlin, now that he knows, because Merlin isn't just his servant anymore, is he, Merlin's actually someone of real importance, and I feel Arthur would have a really difficult time slipping back into their friendship, into their banter and insults and informality, after finding out something like that. He just feels like something intrinsic about their friendship has changed, even if it hasn't, and he's going to struggle, for a little while, in adjusting to that. He's still got a long way to go, but this one gave him a push or two in the right direction, at least.

Anyway! Thanks so much for reading, drop a comment if you liked it, feel free to explain why you didn't, I'll never improve without honesty and feedback!