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"I will do everything to you," Arthur said, his littlest finger hooked into Merlin's, the only point of contact between their bodies. "And some of it twice."
Merlin didn't move, the livid green bruise on his face still ugly and new, unfamiliar. The fire popped, and Arthur didn't startle, didn't clench every muscle in his body, even the ones sore from carrying Merlin over his shoulder and leading the horses to this cave. Shadows briefly hid the discoloration of Merlin's skin, and then it was visible afresh. "I will bear your secrets as my own," he promised.
No matter what he offered Merlin, he wouldn't wake.
The thing is, sorcery isn't what people think it is. It isn't magic. It can't fix everything.
If Merlin had spent one moment more listening to her, instead of fighting her, she would have explained it to him. She can't cross running water, can't touch cold iron; he can do everything she can't, but he's tied to the Pendragon son through time. She can act as she wishes, can love and hate freely; he's bound in ways she finds even the thought of unbearable.
His power outstrips hers a thousandfold, and its roots are deeper than she can trace no matter how far she reaches. But she prefers her delicate webwork of spells, her intricate interlaced enchantments. She has played lapdog for a king, a queen, once, and while in some ways it was worth it, while she still misses Igraine's hand on her shoulder and Uther's laugh, berry-sweet, she will turn her blood to fire and her skin to tree-bark before ever turning herself over to mortals again.
It wasn't a large cottage; it had never been a large cottage. Her parents had shared the back room, with the sunset light permitting mending to go on past Gwen's bedtime, and she had always slept on the pallet next to the fire. Even when her mother bled away her life, that terribly cold winter, and the baby, pale and so tiny Gwen could hold him one-handed, went with her, there wasn't any spare space in it. There was only a gap in her heart.
But when her father was murdered, abruptly her home was full of more echoes than the stone corridors of the castle. She could only hear her own breathing. She learned quickly to get food from the kitchens instead of cooking herself, because she could not learn to make stews that wouldn't spoil before she could eat them. There was too much food in the larder, and that was a sentence she never thought she would say; there was too much room in the house.
She could have slept near Morgana, and she could have soothed Morgana's nightmares. But Morgana could not ask her to stay, and she could not ask Morgana.
It didn't matter how much they loved each other, people were always helpless.