A Different Destiny / Merthur

Time

When Merlin had slipped from consciousness, his body slackening against the cobblestone, Arthur had finally gripped his hand. 

It was burning.

"He needs water!"  Arthur chocked.  "He needs— he's too hot, he can't—" his voice caught in his throat as he tried to lift Merlin's head onto his lap. 

The warlock gave no resistance.  His entire body was limp and trapped in chainmail that dug into his back, each link an icy blade that numbed the flesh. It had utterly failed to protect him.

Arthur hated the sight of it. He wanted it gone. It was only when he tugged at the sleeve, his fingers falling against Merlin's wrist, that he realised the warlock had no pulse. It was only then that he realised he'd stopped breathing.

Arthur almost screamed. 

"What happened?"

Arthur's eyes snapped up at the sound of Gaius' voice.

"Quickly!"

"I—I don't know, it was a spell but— gods, he's not— he's not breathing!"

"Get him to my chambers," Gaius ordered, suddenly trying to recollect every spell he'd ever read. There would be a way to reverse this. There had to be. But whatever it was, it had to be done fast.

Time and tide wait for no man.

Arthur pulled Merlin close, cradling him against his chest — one arm looped under his knees, the other around his back — as he lifted him off the cobblestone.  The warlock was surprisingly heavy.  Perhaps that was the wrong word.  He wasn't so much heavy as he was drawn towards the ground, as though he was just another inanimate thing that gravity tried to claim, desperate to drag him further and further beneath the depths of the surface.

Arthur's grip on Merlin tightened.  He refused to let him become a thing.  He refused to let him go.

~~~

When Arthur arrived in Gaius' chambers, the old man was already there.  He was running about the room, grabbing vials of strange looking liquids and sending books flying from shelves and onto tables, their pages flicking open as though they had minds of their own and were turning them inwards, searching themselves for something — anything — that may be of use.

It had taken the Prince under a minute to get there.  Still, as he set Merlin gently down on the bed, he wondered if he'd been too slow.  It had been almost two minutes since Merlin had stopped breathing.  His stillness was terrifying.  Each second seemed to pull him closer to the point of no return.

Arthur hissed as he touched Merlin's forehead.  "He's burning up!"

"What did it look like?"

"What?"

"The spell!  The spell Merlin was hit with, what did it look like?"

"I didn't see—"

"Well find me someone who did!"  Gaius hadn't meant to yell, but he didn't apologise either. He was working himself into a frenzy.

There was no way Arthur was leaving Merlin like this. He had to do something, he had to— his eyes locked onto the round bathtub in the corner of the room. It hadn't been emptied. Without thinking, he hauled Merlin off the bed, still fully clothed, and practically dropped him into the tub. Water went everywhere. It spilled over the sides and seeped into the floorboards and it was cold.

"Sorry," Arthur whispered, already starting to work Merlin's arms free of the chainmail. "The water smells a bit."

The warlock didn't seem to notice.