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Merlin’s feet are already bare. He removes his belt; then his trousers. Arthur unties the neckerchief at his throat, cool hands ghosting over Merlin’s skin, and Merlin pulls off his tunic, baring the rest of his body to the open sky. Arthur does not look down. “Merlin, if we do this—” “When we do this.” “It won’t be the same as it was before.” Arthur’s eyes are steady, one hand icy and authoritative at Merlin’s hip. “I won’t ignore this.” “You won’t have to.” He has his hands on Arthur’s laces, and when the king doesn’t try to stop him, he begins to untie them bit by bit, wincing a little as they twist around his fingers. The ragged bindings bite into his fist like briars, tearing at the tender flesh as he unthreads them, but once begun Merlin has no intention of stopping. “You won’t remember a thing.” This is the price, of course; there was always going to be one, and Merlin has told himself again and again that he will pay it gladly if it means having Arthur back. To rewrite time, a sacrifice must be made, and this is the only thing with which Merlin would not part with willingly. He has given up on everything else. “Touch me,” he whispers. Arthur’s fingers leave bruises where they brush against him, trailing tiny tendrils of ice. Arthur kisses his mouth and it’s like being swallowed in a snowstorm, whiting out his senses. The air turns to tiny crystals inside his lungs. “Kiss me harder.” It doesn’t really matter if Arthur is naked. That is not the point. The point is that this is the only spell which can bring him back, and if it means that Merlin must be given to him in return, well. Call it compensation. The universe owes him something, after all, something beyond meaningless somedays and the distant possibility of an equally distant future. Merlin is his, has always been his, and it’s only ever been a matter of saying a few goddamned words. “Never leave me.” Arthur on his knees. His mouth—Merlin’s hands fist in his hair and it hurts and it feels so good, like a dry fire that keeps burning, like ashes pressed into his skin. Arthur licks at him; sucks him. He’s not particularly talented but Merlin is gone anyway, thrusting into his mouth and trembling and coming with a shout that echoes off the distant hills. Too soon. Far too soon. Arthur wipes his lips free of Merlin’s spend, looking up at him. This is the first time, the first of three gifts, one after the other. His eyes on Merlin are unwavering, and if there is grief in them, Merlin wills himself not to see it. This time, Arthur kisses him harder without being asked, his mouth like ice chips against Merlin’s lips. His teeth ache. His nose bleeds. Arthur kisses him again. “Spread your legs.” The oil is warm after the chill of Arthur’s hands, oddly slick after Arthur’s dryness. Arthur opens him up, his hands shaking, and presses inside him without pause, stopping only when Merlin cries out. His hands are fisted in the dirt, eyes screwed shut, but he can feel the way Arthur is looking at him. That weary, tender concern. “Will you let me fuck you?” “Yes.” It sounds like a sob, ripped from him. “God, Arthur. Please.” He is drowning in ice. Camlann is gone, replaced with an endless sea of darkness, broken by the occasional stab of light. There should be no pleasure in this, for it is like being unmade, as though Arthur is untangling him like a vine being summarily unbound. And yet, down deep, he feels the spark: a glowing green life, untouched by the cold. He spills. Arthur cries out this time, bent over him, forehead on Merlin’s chest. His hair gleams in the night. When Merlin touches him this time, his skin is soft. “Once more,” he whispers. The rule is that everything comes in threes. Merlin touches his lips to Arthur’s collarbone, to the hollow at the base of his throat and below his jawline. Arthur’s eyes are half closed, animalistic, his body tense like he’s making plans to run. “Arthur?” “I don’t want to lose you.” Dawn is lightening the horizon. How long have they been here, trapped like this? Are they still in the circle? Merlin grasps for any part of Arthur he can reach, and Arthur’s cock pushes between his thighs, rutting into him, desperate to make him come before the hour is up. “Fuck, harder.” Hands, hands. Arthur’s mouth. Cool like a wellspring, now, soothing instead of harsh, a gentle rain instead of a killing frost. Merlin’s fingers run through his hair to find it supple, clutch at his back to find it smooth and warm. There can be only seconds left, time rushing past them like spring-melt, seconds dripping away in a cool blue stream. Merlin hooks his arm over Arthur’s shoulders and finds his mouth, kissing blindly now, the light from the rising sun coming up to dazzle him. “Just hold me,” he whispers, pressing their foreheads together, and when he comes it is with Arthur’s arms around him, Arthur kissing his hair for one last moment and then gone: everything gone, the mud of Camlann exchanged for a field outside of Camelot a long time ago and the circle broken. Merlin stares up at the sky and doesn’t move, counting his injuries. Arthur’s lips are branded at his throat, his hands at Merlin’s waist, but when he looks down he is clothed and appears unblemished: not a single trace remains of their hasty tryst. He is a boy again, at least in principle, but when he gets to his feet it is with the ache of a much older man. “I love you,” he murmurs, the first and last time he’ll say it, then shouldering his burden once more he turns, feet on the same road, the compass of his heart aimed as ever towards his destiny.