Arthur, just like all the other men in his troop, was handpicked by the Commander himself to fight in the army. He’s young, fast, and strong. He wants for nothing but the weight of a sword or spear in his hand, the straps of a shield on his arm, and the burning of his muscles–the fast pace of his heart, of his blood, the exhilarating fury of battle, like a war cry pounding inside his chest, spreading relentlessly inside his veins. He was made for this.
And all of it, he shares with Merlin.
They are bonded together in life and in death. They may have taken their vows in front of the Gods, but when Merlin’s shoulder brushed Arthur’s, when his lips were warm and soft on Arthur’s throat, his fingers rough and tender and impatient on his skin, Arthur knew he would never let Merlin go. They are brothers, friends, lovers; fierce and bold, sacred and beloved. They fight together, laugh together, sleep, dine, breathe, love and live together.
They will die together, too. Of that, Arthur is certain. Whether it’s on the battlefield or after–when the fight is over and Arthur has taken Merlin home with him where they can learn to live in new, different, wild ways–only the Gods know.