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It happened near the shore-lands, in a place where the mountains rose tall and the river widened into an estuary. The current was gentle, the horses well-trained, and there was no reason to expect trouble in the crossing.
No reason, Arthur would think, save that Merlin was along.
Something alerted Arthur, something made him look back. It wasn't a noise. There was no splash, no shout, no struggle. Merlin made no sound at all as he went down, face first, dark water closing over him.
Arthur reacted, tossing his reins to the knight at his left, swinging down from his horse, a high spray rising at the impact. He pushed back towards Merlin, too slow, the water heavy against him, chainmail weighing him down. The blue of Merlin's tunic glimmered below the surface - Arthur grabbed at it - Merlin was sinking like a stone -
- darkness, loud darkness in his ears and his eyes - heaviness in his stomach, shoving Arthur down -
And then everything was quiet, everything was still, everything was dry.
Keeping his cough as quiet as possible, Arthur rolled to his feet, fluid and quick, scanning the room - room, they were in a room. "Merlin," he hissed. "Get up, get up -" And Arthur held his breath, not knowing whether Merlin could get up; there was a long moment where Arthur's heart hurt in his chest and then, thank heaven, Merlin began to move.
He got to his feet with a drunk's sideways stagger, coughing louder, harder, and in generally a more disgusting fashion than Arthur had. "Where" - more coughing, and this time Merlin grasped Arthur's shoulder to steady himself through it - "where are we?"
"Interesting you should ask that. The obvious answer is" - Arthur gave an extremely pointed look - "not safely upon our horses, surveying the far territories, where we should be."
The chamber was small and strange, clearly a thing of gross magic. Beneath them the floor was dry, yellow-white dust; around them were walls formed from thousands of bones. Thousands of lives.
Merlin looked sick, stricken and white, two unnatural spots of colour blooming on his cheeks. Arthur drew his sword. "Show yourself," he commanded.
Nothing happened. Arthur circled slowly, hoping for sound, hoping for movement. This stillness he did not like. He shouted again, and again; stopped when he heard the edge in his voice that did not sound like control.
"There's a door," Merlin said into the silence. He tipped his head. "Over there."
Arthur looked and, with concentration, was able to make out the thin, shadowed outline. "Yes, good job," he said. "Doesn't quite make up for getting us buried alive, but it's a start."
"I didn't - wait, you think we're buried alive?"
Arthur sighed. "I don't know. It's better than the alternative. We could stand here and talk about it some more if you'd like, or we could go have a look at this door?"
As they crossed the room, Arthur realised that the ground sloped under their feet. Like a river to the sea, there was but one way to go; unlike a river, Arthur objected to being led.
Carved into the floor before the door were two words. They looked like nothing Arthur had ever seen, and when Merlin muttered them, from someplace deep in his throat, they sounded like nothing Arthur had ever heard.
"Say that again."
Merlin looked as if he didn't want to, but he obeyed. "Oeth Anoeth."
Something crept up Arthur's spine, and he squared his shoulders against it. "Do you know what it means?"
"Power, and not power." Merlin blinked. "I mean, I think. Because I think maybe I heard it somewhere. But maybe I didn't. I don't really know."
"Truly, you are helpful beyond measure, Merlin." Sheathing his sword, Arthur examined the door. He saw no handle, no lock, only bones. He didn't like the idea that Merlin had knowledge or even half-knowledge of the words written in death-dust, and he didn't like the way they had sounded in his mouth.
Nor did he like closed doors. Removing his heavy, sodden gloves, Arthur stretched out a hand and pushed, his palm rounding on the curve of a skull, his thumb in the socket of an eye. The door swung open, and with Arthur leading, they passed through.
The room beyond held more of the same. Arthur didn't have to be shown twice; he was able to quickly spot the next door himself, and strode towards it. Merlin followed a pace behind.
"Arthur, what are we doing?"
"Trying to find a way out, idiot." Arthur had been reaching toward the door, palm flat, but changed course to cuff Merlin behind the ear. He was unreasonably glad when his hand met wet, sopping hair and skin. They were still whole and real, and they would not come to dust. He would not allow it.
Merlin winced in what appeared to be honest pain, which Arthur felt well out of proportion to the strength of the blow. "What? Are you that fragile? Or did you hurt yourself when we" - what had they done? - "fell?"
Rubbing at his temple, Merlin didn't answer. Annoyance flared in Arthur, which was immanently reasonable, as everything about this whole situation was very annoying indeed.
"And how on earth did you end up in the river in the first place? I cannot believe that mare threw you, much less kicked you on the way down. I would give her to a child to ride."
Merlin looked - well, Arthur couldn't tell what Merlin looked, so the best bet was probably 'confused.' At length, he shrugged.
"I'll just stop asking you to think, then, shall I? Since you seem to have damaged your head so badly." Arthur turned away from Merlin, pushed open the door, and stepped through.
The next chamber had two doorways. The one after that, three. Arthur contemplated these, then pulled out his dagger and pushed up his sleeve.
Quick like lightning, Merlin wrapped one hand around the hilt and the other around Arthur's bare forearm. "No," he said. "No, Arthur."
"I'm not going to open a blood vessel, Merlin," Arthur said. He was using his reassuring voice, which was, part of him vaguely noticed, really a rather testy one. "But we don't want to get lost, so we'll always take the door to the far left, and I'll mark how many doors we take."
"No," Merlin said again. "You can't. I don't think it's a good idea for you to spill blood in this place."
"I said you would no longer be required to think," Arthur said, snapping because Merlin was beyond doubt the most disrespectful servant in the entire world, and because Merlin was probably right. "Come on, then, push up your sleeve," he added.
To Merlin's credit, he did so without a word. "Mm, yes." Arthur drew out a pause. "No wonder you're useless with a sword. Your wrists are pathetic, I'm surprised they don't snap like twigs." Merlin simply stood there, silently offering himself up, and Arthur's irritation grew. "Drop your arm, Merlin. By now you should know that if I am not willing to do a thing myself, I will not ask it of you."
"Except clean your boots?" Merlin shook down his sleeve, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Exactly."
"And you should know," Merlin said, voice filled with the quiet certainty that always seemed to belong to someone not-Merlin, "that when it comes to your safety, there is nothing I will not do."
Arthur thought of the ways they were alike, and of the things they were willing to spend their lives for; he did not nod, and Merlin did not look away.
"Find a loose bone," he said. And with Merlin's eyes no longer on him, Arthur could clearly picture the strange patch of violent pink he'd glimpsed on the inside of Merlin's wrist, much like the bright colour still high on his cheeks; Arthur slipped back the hem of his own sleeves, surreptitiously, but the skin there was just as always.
*
The doors kept multiplying, exponential. The floor kept sloping, leading them down. Every room was darker, the light seemingly filtering in from further and further away. Walls that had been gruesome enough before turned uniquely horrible in the strange, almost green-tinted shadows. The skulls were the worst, their hollow stares too much like reproach. These might have been his people, and Arthur didn't even know when nor why they'd died.
He would find the architect of this hell, and that - among other things - would change.
Even with the count Merlin kept on the bone, it was hard to judge how much time had passed, how long they had been walking. Arthur's clothes and mail still clung wet and heavy to his body, but the air here scratched at his throat, like he was breathing sand. At least Merlin hadn't started up any of his listen-to-me, I'm-thirsty-and-annoying lip-smacking. Arthur supposed he should count himself lucky for that.
"I would praise you for your restraint," Arthur said, knowing this would bewilder Merlin. He looked back to enjoy the sight of it, those wide eyes, "but you'd probably just -"
He couldn't finish. Everything seemed to stop. The door in front of Arthur refused to open.
Arthur shifted his hands, pressed a little higher, this time on a long, splintered thigh-bone. When that didn't work, he moved to his right, trying the next door, and then the next. He pushed harder and harder, the edges of the old bones sharp under his palms. Nothing moved, nothing, and whatever patience Arthur had managed to hold onto snapped.
"I am Arthur Pendragon, Crown Prince of Camelot," he shouted, kicking at the door with spine-jarring force, "and you will let me pass!" Arthur drew back, then lunged forward, shoving with all the strength of his arms and force of his will; what came out of his mouth this time was not words, just noise, and still the door refused to move.
Arthur's dry breaths hurt, loud and harsh in his ears. Merlin was standing close, staring, his mouth open - if he could ever learn to think without looking ridiculous, Arthur would be impressed. "So that's how it works," Merlin muttered. And then he reached out, wrapped strong fingers around Arthur's wrist, and said, "Try again."
"Merlin," Arthur began, angry at everything - himself for not being able to open a door, the magic that had dragged them here in the first place, and more than anything in that moment, his manservant, "I don't need your-"
But apparently he did, because with Merlin's skin against his, the door opened under Arthur's hand. On the other side was a room no different than the dozens that had come before. "What did you mean?" Arthur asked, rounding on Merlin. "What did you mean, 'So that's how it works?'"
"Well, I'm not sure," Merlin said, looking wretched, eyes sliding off to one side, "but I think - I think this is a prison. And when you can't go any farther -"
"You have found your cell," Arthur finished. "Then, since we have passed that door, you can let go of me."
"Well...."
"You're not sure," Arthur sighed. "Of course not."
"Maybe you couldn't go any farther because that was where you were meant to stay. But maybe you couldn't go any farther because...."
"Because my time has come, no matter what room I'm in?" For a moment Arthur was distracted by the heat of Merlin's fingers around his wrist - he felt like a small, burning fire. "There's a problem with your theory, Merlin. We haven't seen any other prisoners."
"No," Merlin said, his face shuttering. "You're right, not seen, no."
The air was too thick with uncertainties for Arthur's taste, and so, determined to find out at least one thing for sure, he shook off Merlin's hand and crossed the room. He did not like what he learned. Leaning forward, hands braced against another stubbornly fast door, Arthur said, "It makes sense that I would meet with more resistance than you."
Behind him, Merlin said nothing.
"Whatever sorcerer has laid this trap, he's more interested in me than you. Understandably."
"Yes, of course," Merlin murmured. This time he wound his fingers through Arthur's, and after they pushed the door open and passed through, Arthur looked down at their joined hands and decided it would just have to be that way. Until the door came that Merlin could not help him open - if such a thing were to come.
*
"You should rest," Merlin said, for at least the fifth time.
"No."
"Well then, I need to." Merlin dropped to the ground like a sack of grain, still firmly holding onto Arthur.
And Arthur gave in and sat down beside him, bones at his back, and let out a dry breath that turned into a cough that scraped him raw. It did feel good to rest, but it was also dangerous - while he was moving he was alive, he was in control. The longer Arthur sat, the more he was going to have to depend on Merlin to get him back up.
Suddenly Merlin reached up and gripped his head in both hands, which meant one of Arthur's got dragged along as well, and began rocking back and forth, his shoulders hunched. Arthur turned his hand underneath Merlin's so that his palm cupped Merlin's skull - Arthur could too-clearly picture the hard ivory curve of it - and his fingers slipped into Merlin's hair, damp and rough with dirt and bone-dust. "It's really your head?"
Merlin's eyes squeezed shut. Arthur supposed that was an answer.
"We have to continue on," Arthur said, moving his fingers carefully, systematically, testing for injury. "The truth will be at the centre." He coloured his voice with experience, to remind Merlin of the last labyrinth they'd travelled. He did not allow in shadings of desperation, of hope.
Merlin managed a controlled nod, his eyes still tightly closed. That unnatural colour on his cheeks was a dark stain in this strange light, making Arthur think of blood on cloth. And it was so strange to still feel moisture between his fingertips, considering the burning in his throat; one of these things was doubtless uncanny, if not both.
Finally Merlin opened his eyes, and turned in Arthur's direction. With an obvious effort, he focused. "Arthur," he said, "how are you doing with this?"
Arthur knew there were head injuries that gave no sign save in the eyes. Watching Merlin's closely now, seeing the oddness there, he wondered whether he was looking at one. "Better than you," he said. "You look like you're about to shatter, Merlin."
"No, no, no -" Merlin shook his head with each word; Arthur wanted to grab hold, keep it steady in his hands, keep Merlin safe from himself. "How are you doing with," Merlin tapped their connected hands, "this. Having to rely on me."
"I hate it, naturally."
"Naturally." A small smile played at Merlin's mouth.
Arthur felt himself mirror it, until - "Tell me," he said abruptly, "is that what's hurting you? Helping me? Because -"
"No. You're easy." Merlin looked down at his knees. It would be nice to think that this discomfiture had something to do with the grievous error of interrupting his prince, but Arthur thought he knew better than that. "Keeping myself together, that's the hard part."
"Right," Arthur said slowly. He stood up then, pulling Merlin along, ready to steady him if necessary, but Merlin made it to his feet with only a small wobble. Arthur turned, making for the next door.
"Wait -" With his free hand, the one not anchoring Arthur, Merlin fumbled with the scarf at his neck. Arthur was merely impatient while Merlin worked the cloth loose; when Merlin proceeded to stick the smelly damp thing in Arthur's face, he was a great deal more than that. But Merlin said, "Please," with no trace of humour. And, softly, "I know you need to."
"It's filthy."
"It's wet," Merlin said. "Please."
Arthur kept his eyes open. A prince did not hide from his actions, even if - especially if - they made for conduct unbecoming. The first drop was a perfect shock, summer rain on parched land; he took all that was offered, and would have taken more.
*
A short, sharp breath from Merlin, a tight clenching of fingers, and it didn't matter that the door looked like all the others, felt like all the others (dry, rough, wrong). Arthur had his warning, and it was enough.
They stepped through to meet a shifting, fathomless dark.
One hand with Merlin, one on the hilt of his sword: Arthur was ready. He was looking through a veil; the darkness was not absolute, not empty. There was a presence in this space, and if Arthur squinted, he could almost catch a glimpse, a hint of something deep green and reaching. Like a sea-forest, like the hem of a midnight cloak, like the sinuous tail of a thing without use for legs.
"I have already given you my name," Arthur said. "Do you not offer the same?"
A long pause, too long. Merlin's skin felt fever-sick, hot and cold together, and Arthur's patience was the thinnest bit of thread. He had steel and he had words, and if he could not make use of the one, then by God he needed to be able to land blows with the other.
A voice rolled out of the darkness, finally, deep and old and strong. "I am called by many."
Arthur breathed through his nose, hard, and wondered what exactly sorcerers found so wrong with straight answers. "Very well," he ground out. "Explain why you keep us here."
"Because you trespass, Arthur Pendragon."
"Trespass? I, trespass? You dragged us here -"
"Emrys is here at my will. You are not. Emrys walks on land and passes his days among life; it is right too that he walk under wave and pass some nights among death. You have no such right. You disturb the balance."
Arthur made to speak, but Merlin was faster. "My name is Merlin." He sounded as if he were clinging white-knuckled to control; Arthur didn't turn his head, didn't look. "You say you have many names. Which would you choose?"
"Ah!" The voice seemed - pleased? Amused? Pitying? "But can that matter, when one is not enough to hold all? To Pendragon I say: know me as Manawyddan, son of Llyr. To you I say: know that where you are priest, I am god and guardian. As you know my Blessed Isle above, so know my realm below."
Protect, deflect. The instinct was echoingly familiar, pulling like an undertow, erasing all else. "Merlin," Arthur drawled, loud and incredulous, "I had no idea you were so religious. Funny, I've never once caught you at your prayers."
"I'm not," Merlin burst out. "I'm not."
"Perhaps you misunderstand the reason for your presence. This is the time for allegiance, and this is the place for the swearing." No amusement now in Manawyddan's tone, no warmth, only the cold of the deepest sea. "You offer no pledge? You swear no oath? You accept the power, but not the duty?"
The part of Arthur that was a warrior, that knew instinct and knew defence, expected Merlin to let go his hand in that second, or the next. Cut him off, leave him out. The part of him that wished to trust men, always, was warmed through with pride and more when Merlin's grip neither slipped nor faltered.
"My duty is to him," Merlin said, low. "Same for - for anything I might have."
"Say you so. A thousand voices wish you lie."
"I won't apologise to them. They can scream all they like and I never will." And then, in a tone of voice Arthur had heard turned on him more than once - it was bizarrely comforting to hear it now - Merlin added, "If anyone should, it's you."
"I do what I must." Manawyddan sounded indifferent, almost bored, but Arthur recognised it for anger. A remote kind, one of judgment and burning ice, something like his father's, nothing like his own. The shadows gave proof; they were slithering around Merlin now, touching his face.
"No," Arthur said. That was the last of his restraint, shattered on a shadow's caress. "No. Nothing requires this."
"The choice does not lie with me." Manawyddan's voice was lazy, furious. "I uphold the balance. When it claims a life, I honour the claim. I hold life fast. Such is my duty, and the lives held my just due. My only choice is this, and Arthur Pendragon, say if you would choose differently: If in my realm there is trespass," Manawyddan paused, soft consonants lingering, "I punish those who should be punished."
The shadows came for Arthur then. He had expected that.
And they were not gentle. They came fast, in a swallowing, suffocating rush, and there was nothing for him but the swirling, green-black dark. The part of Arthur's brain that thought it knew drowning wanted to claw through the shadows, gasp for air, struggle for light. But he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't fight, could only sink deeper, deeper, deeper -
A sudden, screaming pain in his hand, in his fingers, and all the rest was silence.
Arthur breathed, because he could. He could. It was, after all, only darkness. Turning towards Merlin - Arthur didn't have to see to know where he was, just follow that clear, crushing pain - he said, urgent, "Merlin. There are a thousand voices screaming inside your head?"
Merlin made a little choked sound. "At least. Yes."
"They scream because... something can be done for them?"
"No."
"Merlin."
"No," Merlin insisted. "It doesn't matter what any of them want. One life came in, one life can go out. That's it, that's all. That's you." His grip tightened again, fingernails biting at Arthur's hand, as if he were afraid Arthur would try and let go.
Arthur shook his head, not caring if the gesture went unseen; he needed to make it. For a second he thought the shadow-light gave him sight of Merlin, showed the set of his jaw. Or maybe that was just Arthur's mind at work, trying to be kind, trying to give him something he unquestionably understood.
Then Merlin shouted, "You see that I know the law - now see what I choose to do with it!" As his words sliced through the black, it was as if everything stopped; air and breath, tide and motion, all suspended, all waiting.
So Manawyddan knew what it was to be wary. Arthur smiled.
Merlin's free hand found on Arthur's, still on his sword-hilt. "I know you want to help them," Merlin said, "but I can't give them their lives. No-one can." He took a breath, loud. Pressed Arthur's sword hand deliberately. "But you - I think you could give them their deaths."
"You offer me life, and tell me to offer them death?" Blood sang in Arthur's ears. He wanted to walk away from Merlin in that moment, more than anything. Wanted - needed - to draw one clear thought from his own strength alone. But he couldn't. Oeth Anoeth.
"You've seen the bones. They are lost already. Lost before they arrived -"
"Oh? Like me?"
"- No. Arthur -"
It was not just his own pulse rising in Arthur's ears; the darkness had taken on noise, rushing and strange, like angry water and ancient snakes. Arthur didn't know if he were hearing the thousand voices, or Manawyddan's true one.
It didn't matter. He had no sight, no sound, nothing but the shivering heat of Merlin's skin and the cold of steel. This was a time for trust: that Merlin's words were true, that this was the only option, that Arthur would be able to do this, whether or not he knew how.
He moved without hesitation, and that was worth everything.
Arthur could not hear the scrape of metal on metal as he drew his sword, but the weight felt good and right. He spun it once in his hand, feeling the arc, knowing the reach perfectly.
A true, clean death, or a broken eternity in a sorcerer's cage. Arthur knew which he would choose.
He turned on the spot, suffering only a moment's imbalance until Merlin followed, the angle and pressure of his grip detailing the movement Arthur could neither see nor hear. There was a wall here, close, holding the door they had entered by. A door he had not been meant to make it through, leading to a deep centre he had been able to breach only because of Merlin.
Like all the others, this wall trapped souls. It was also solid and real - a good quality in an enemy - and Arthur was still moving, sword leading. He ran it through.
The impact shocked through Arthur's shoulder, jarred his teeth. But it was more like striking sand than mortar; he twisted the sword as he wrenched it free, felt the give, and knew without sight that the dry bones he'd pierced now sighed as dust.
Again he stabbed, and again. There was some logic to it: this was the innermost wall, and if it yielded, much more might also yield. But mostly there was the deep satisfaction of doing, and feeling, and Arthur stopped only when Merlin pulled hard at his hand.
There was grit on his lips, in his eyes.
The clamour in Arthur's ears was merciless; it built and built, sibilant-harsh, until he stumbled under the weight of it. Merlin was there, with a hand to his chest. Arthur dug his fingers into Merlin's shoulder, quick and steadying, and there was a dry, wrenching, bloodless tearing; the first words to fall on Arthur's very sore ears went something like, " - think he's really angry!"
"Yes, I believe so," Arthur said dryly, as the air became a maelstrom and the shadows spun. "I can't say that I'm surprised."
"Expect he is." Merlin sounded darkly pleased.
"Good." Dust and dirt and fragments of bone beat against their bodies, their faces. Buried alive, Arthur had said earlier; now would come the full force of that, as Manawyddan too exchanged words for actions. Ducking his head, Arthur found Merlin's and shoved it down, shoulder-level. They might make one another's shield, for a time.
*
Now Arthur knew what a passing army must sound like to an ant.
A thunder-roar filled every part of his hearing, reverberated through his skin. Arthur sought focus. His palm was pressed flat against the back of Merlin's neck, fingers reaching down his spine. What he felt was a tight knot of strain; when Merlin began to shake, by slow degrees, Arthur did not think it was from fear.
He clasped Merlin's hand more tightly. It was a strength he could give.
The storm was long, uncountable, furious. It was a storm to die in, dashed on rocks, swallowed by sea. Except there was nothing like water here, and every breath Arthur took was death-dry and choking. Perhaps they had forced Manawyddan to show mercy to the dead, but he offered none to the living.
Yet still they stood, not buried and not broken.
First the thunder lessened, then the gale. Arthur raised his head. The shadows no longer hung so thickly; the light was becoming once again that strange green, filtered through the dust and death slowly swirling around them, clinging to their faces and clothes. He could not see much, could not tell where they stood, what they stood upon, but he could see Merlin's face. Merlin looked a mess, his hair matted and half-grey with dirt, but his cheeks seemed pale now, no more of that vicious red. Lifting a hand, Arthur ran his thumb over cheek and bone, wiping away dust, making certain there was nothing hidden, nothing buried. Then he turned Merlin's wrist to check the pulse-point, to be sure the strange colour had disappeared from there as well.
"Does this mean your brain's rattling around in there on its own again?"
A cross little line appeared between Merlin's eyebrows, leading Arthur to smile. Of course Merlin had found the small insult, and of course he was about to say something irredeemably insolent. Arthur actually wanted to hear it almost as much as he wanted to know where Manawyddan was, what he would do next -
There was no more time. Arthur's eyes were wide open and he saw everything, saw what it looked like when dry became wet, dust became water.
They struggled, fast and desperate. Arthur could only kick and push and refuse to think about all the rooms they'd passed through, of just how far down they must have gone. Up, up. There was light ahead, and they would reach it - he was not sinking, he was moving, he was fighting -
He heard his name before he broke the surface, a deep echo; he couldn't respond, but it made no difference. He would speak with Manawyddan again someday, and the time and place would be of his choosing. Matters between them were not closed.
The sunlight was beautiful, dazzling, blinding. Arthur gulped air, then choked and coughed nearly as much as Merlin. He could hear voices, and, squinting, could see several of his knights, searching the river. They would not dare return to Camelot without their prince, one way or another.
He and Merlin were downriver, tide-carried. The sun had not changed position overmuch, unless, of course, it had set and risen in their absence, maybe even set and risen again. They moved feet and arms against the water gently, close together but no longer touching. Had ever there been cause to consider it, Arthur would have thought dunking Merlin in a river would make him look a scrawny drowned rat; but somehow it did the opposite, made him appear stronger, darker.
"You did it."
Merlin wore a smile, but there was a flatness under his words, a small wrongness. Funny how easy it was to spot.
Arthur said, "Merlin."
Merlin went still, eyes stark and staring. He swallowed, again and again and again, the constant quiet working of his throat a flint to Arthur's anger, always hot and fierce and personal. Arthur let the moment stretch out, let it settle, let it bear weight. "I have heard many things this day," he said, finally, "and many things I have believed. Do not speak to me one word that I cannot."
Merlin nodded, quick and tight. Looked away, down.
They had seen. A knight was half-swimming, half-shoving his way through the water, graceless in his haste, shouting, "Sire! Sire!". Goreu, a part of Arthur's mind supplied, from the voice. He would reach them soon.
The clear air burned at Arthur's still-raw throat, and his stomach was a mess of brackish water, doing no good. The slap of water was loud against his treading hands. Arthur thought, vaguely, satisfyingly, about shaking Merlin -
- who looked up, and with nothing but bright, stupid, relentless pride, insisted, "But you did. Only you could have done that. Not me."
"Well, of course not. Like I said - useless with a sword." And Merlin looked as if he would rather like to flail his arms and splash at Arthur, so Arthur splashed first, sending a sheet of brown water into Merlin's face. While Merlin spat and wiped at his eyes, Arthur said, "What I did, you made possible."
"Yeah," Merlin said. Water dripped from his nose, his ears. "I think that's how it's supposed to work."