TITLE: If I Was

AUTHOR: finn1013

SUMMARY: When Merlin is injured during the search for Mordred, his friendship with Arthur is changed forever. Angst. Starts after 5.11, then AU.

RATING: T

DISCLAIMER: Merlin is not mine.

Merlin was sure the bunny would be soft and cuddly, if only he could hold it.

He stretched out a hand, blinking in bemusement when its eyes glittered with what seemed to be an unfriendly light. Then jump, jump, jump: it waved a miniature sword in one small paw, its ears twitched, then the sword slashed down, and his head: oww!

His vision wavered and he flung an arm out to steady himself, but the earth heaved, the tree he'd staggered against shoved back, and his surroundings blurred to a confusing jumble of multi-coloured greens.

He fell hard, jarring his knees and his hands. For a moment he couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Something warm was trickling down the back of his head; it felt wrong and he batted at it clumsily and nearly managed to fall on his face.

The world was turning in slow motion, had he tampered with time? Everything felt thick and fuzzy, like he was swimming through treacle. He must have moved; now his hand was flat in the grass. He stared at his fingers with slow incomprehension as if they didn't belong to him: they were sticky now with a coating of blood.

The bunny was still there, watching him now with a quizzical expression on its furry face. One ear twitched back and forth waving farewell, farewell, farewell. Then it threw its sword away, dropped down on all four paws and began nuzzling his head.

No, wait.

What?

Someone was petting his head.

The touch barely penetrated the confusion clouding his mind, but he struggled through the growing void: and there it was again, the light sensation of a hand stroking his forehead.

His eyelids fluttered as the earth beckoned him with its siren song: he didn't know how it had happened, but somehow he was lying on his back in the damp grass.

He became aware of a sound: someone was moaning deep and loud, and the noise hurt his head. Stop it, be quiet, go away, he wanted to say, and his mouth moved but nothing came out, yet the noise died away.

He was tired, so tired ...

"No, Merlin. Don't you dare. Wake up."

The summons was urgent, and the urge to pay attention was strangely familiar. He stirred and someone moaned again, the command was repeated and his eyes fluttered open to a blur of blond hair.

"Finally. I wondered if you were going to laze around forever."

He blinked, and struggled weakly, but there was a hand pressing against his shoulder, holding him still. He tried to focus on the face, and make his lips move. "Wh ...?" He wanted to ask what happened?, but his mouth couldn't seem to shape the words.

The man seemed to understand, an expression of pain marring his face. "I couldn't get to you in time."

He breathed slowly. It made no sense, and his lack of understanding must have shown because the man shook his head. "Here. Can you try and sit up?"

He tried to say yes, but his tongue was too heavy, but the man helped him up anyway, sliding an arm under his shoulders. The movement jarred his head, and fierce pain burned through him like a pyre, and he barely managed to turn his head to the side before he was violently sick all over the ground. The effort exhausted him.

"Arthur, oh God, the back of his head. It's all over his jacket too. Look."

His head? Was there something wrong with him? It didn't seem to matter. He wanted to shut his eyes again, but the man wasn't having it.

"No, Merlin, you can't go back to sleep. You're bleeding, and we have to stop it. You've got to tell us how to help you. Do you understand me?"

He grunted a response, and time twisted away from him again, and he didn't know if it was then or a moon cycle later as the pressure in his head increased until he thought he'd explode. Someone was moaning again, and he tried to tell them: ssssh, and quiet, shut up, shut up, but then it didn't matter because everything went away.

When he woke up it was night.

He couldn't see anyone, but he could hear the murmur of voices nearby. He was lying on his side, wrapped up tightly in several layers of blankets. The cicadas were in song. He was hot. The glow from the camp fire hurt his eyes.

He must have moved or made a sound, because the man was back.

"Merlin, you were hurt." The man knelt down, his face was partly in the shadows but it looked like he was frowning. "How are you feeling?"

Someone else said, "He's awake?"

He blinked slowly.

"Merlin?"

It was too dark to see the man's face properly but he heard the concern in his voice, and it tugged at him from somewhere deep down. "Um." He cleared his throat and tried again, his mouth was so dry that his voice was a whisper. "Thirsty."

He struggled to sit up and the man murmured, "Of course," and he was gathered up, and the uninjured side of his head was propped against the hard armour on the man's shoulder. The cold metal felt soothing against the fire raging inside him.

"Gwaine, Leon, hurry up."

He looked around slowly. There were other figures near the campfire, and one of them crouched down beside them, holding something. His blanket fell down a little, freeing one arm. A flask was pressed against his lips.

He took a wobbly sip, swishing the water around to rinse away the foul taste in his mouth. He tried to spit it out on the ground but some of it dribbled down his chin, and a soft cloth pressed against the side of his mouth, wiping gently.

He wanted to sleep again, but the man wanted to talk, his tone pitched low in the dark. "Can you remember what happened?"

He didn't answer, and the man said, "It was Mordred, do you remember? We'd almost caught up with him, you were hit, and he used magic to escape."

Magic. Of course, he should have thought of that. Magic. He tried to touch his head but his arm wouldn't co-operate: still, he murmured to himself, "Gehalge," but his focus was off, and the spell slipped away.

The man sighed, and put a hand across his forehead. "You're too hot, Merlin."

He let the man help him lie back down and rearrange his blankets, taking away two of the layers that had been covering him. He could see him better now, his face was thrown into sharp relief with the glow feom the campfire highlighting his features. There was something about him, something ... "You ..." He coughed and licked his lips and tried again. "You're ... Arthur."

But the man ... Arthur ... didn't look pleased to be recognised; instead Arthur's mouth parted as if he was going to speak, but then he hesitated, frowning, and exchanged a glance with someone across the campfire. A hand smoothed over his forehead again, this time lingering on the side of his head, stroking through his hair, soothing. "Of course I am."

"Uh ..." he trailed off, wanting to ask, but uncertain if he should.

"What is it?"

For a moment he was troubled, but there was something so strong drawing him to this man, clearing a way through the fog that was enveloping his head. He knew, somehow, that he could trust this man with his life, he knew this man was his dearest friend, that Arthur must have a reason for ... it ... and whatever Arthur's reason was, then Arthur would tell him.

His chest moved up and down slowly as he processed that thought. He felt calm, but there was something ... not quite right ... something he was forgetting ... something, if only he could remember ... but the twinge of unease was ephemeral and slipped away.

"Merlin, what is it?"

Arthur was golden in the firelight, glowing as if he'd been lit by magic. And yes: yes he knew, this was right. Arthur was his destiny, Arthur was his king, Arthur was why he lived and breathed.

"Why do you ..." He paused, because his eyes felt heavy but he wouldn't sleep. The hand was still soothing and for a moment he focused on it. "Why do you ... call me that?"

"Merlin? You mean why do we call you Merlin?" Arthur shook his head, he seemed a little unhappy now. "What then, should we call you?"

He knew his destiny. He knew the prophecies. He knew the reasons why he'd been put on this earth. "Emrys," he said, and saying the name aloud stirred something elemental in his blood. "I'm Emrys, Arthur."