Merthur One-shots

And Let Me Make Your Embrace My Home

Summary: He shouldn’t be so tired, but he was exhausted.

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Merlin struggled to hold back a yawn as he dragged the whetstone over Arthur’s sword with care, sitting on the floor next to the fire as he worked on a cold evening.

He shouldn’t be so tired, but he was exhausted.

The previous day he’d been overloaded with duties thanks to the preparations for the upcoming spring festival around the citadel. The previous night, he’d gotten no sleep, having to deal with a magical threat that had slipped in under his and Arthur’s noses. Now, he’d spent his entire day with practically no breaks—what with his duties for Gaius and his duties for Arthur…

He was beyond exhausted.

His grip slipped as he dragged the stone down the blade, and he stared as his hand ran along the blade. Slowly, he set down the whetstone and sword on the floor, before staring blankly down at the slice on the heel of his palm. Blood bubbled at the surface, quickly slipping from the wound. He was so engrossed with staring at his bleeding hand, he didn’t even notice Arthur had walked over until he spoke.

“Merlin? Is there a reason you stopped working, or have you just chosen this instant to show your defiance again?” The prince asked from behind Merlin.

The words seemed to snap Merlin out of his daze a fraction, but not enough to fully process what had happened yet. The sorcerer blinked slowly once, twice, then he twisted his body back to look at Arthur, that same empty look still on his face.

“I think I cut myself,” he mumbled, looking very much like he was in another dimension.

Arthur let out a small confused noise before kneeling down beside Merlin. “What do you mean you think you cut yourself? Merlin, where did you—oh dear gods.”

Merlin tilted his head at the abrupt change in tone and sentence direction. He followed the prince’s line of sight to his hand, where the blood was starting to drip onto the floor. A small frown marred his brow and a pout tugged at his lips as he watched the red stain the floor he sat on.

“I’ll clean it up,” he promised, his voice still barely above a whisper. Arthur let out an incredulous laugh from his position next to him.

“Merlin! I don’t care about the—stay here,” he shook his head, standing up as Merlin zoned on his injury again, “let me grab the emergency bandages from my desk.”

As his footsteps receded, Merlin blinked a few times, his eyes widening impossibly as the wound on his hand finally registered in his brain at the mention of bandages. The pain finally seemed to set in at that point, and he let out a hissing gasp, clutching his hand to his chest as he stumbled to his feet, looking around for Arthur.

“Merlin, stay there,” Arthur ordered as he rummaged through his desk. Merlin was feeling just a little hysterical at the moment, though, what with his bleeding hand and severe exhaustion, and could care less about orders. He went to take a step, to approach the prince, but he wobbled and quickly decided against defiance.

Oh, he felt faint. Did he really lose that much blood? Or was he just that tired?

Probably that latter, his cut wasn’t that bad… Was it?