Warnings: Images of death
Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Merlin and no money was made from writing this.
Summary: There's comfort in the knowledge you don't always have to be in control.
A/N: This is unbetaed and was written in about twenty minutes. My apologies if it sucks, but it needed to be written. This ficlet is set several years in the future of the BBC show.
Merlin struggled, his hands pushing against Arthur’s chest. He was a powerful sorcerer, the greatest warlock in all of Albion, but here, with Arthur, he was powerless, he was mortal, and most importantly, he was loved.
Arthur continued to hold him in place, taking his wrists and pinning them easily above his head. Merlin tugged against Arthur’s hold, bucking in place in a futile attempt to free himself. Arthur didn’t move, his legs tangling around Merlin’s so he was held perfectly still because Arthur knew, as he always did, Merlin didn’t want to win. Not here. Not like this.
“Yield,” Arthur ordered, his eyes reflecting the warm glow of the fire.
Merlin shook his head, his eyes closed. He saw the bodies of four sorcerers he’d killed today, twisted arms, mangled legs, and burned flesh. He saw fear in the eyes of Arthur’s knights as they quickly stepped back to let him pass. He felt their eyes on his back as he walked across the scorched grass.
He opened his eyes when he felt Arthur’s fingers tighten around his wrists. “Yield,” Arthur repeated, hovering patiently above him. He’d wait. Arthur would always wait.
Merlin could feel his magic stirring deep in his stomach – the all-consuming power threatening to overtake him, but what he savored, what kept him grounded, was Arthur’s breath against his cheek, the weight of Arthur’s chest against his own, and the pull of Arthur’s command on his heart.
“Yield,” Arthur murmured, his thumbs rubbing reassuringly over the underside of Merlin’s wrists.
“Yes,” Merlin whispered, relinquishing control to the only person he’d ever deemed worthy.
When he closed his eyes, he saw only Arthur.