Chapter Text
Hey! Could you write some Merlin angst, maybe something where he has a misunderstanding with the knights and gets all angsty and sad, ending with comfort and hugs? Hopefully that’s not too vague. Thank you, love your writing! – anon
Percival snickers as Merlin stumbles off into the trees. “He looks as if he’s using the horse as a walking cane.”
“I know he’s as skinny as a newly-grown tree but he’s not that tall.” Elyan tosses a waterskin over to him. “Besides, with his luck, he’ll spook the horse with his clumsiness and it’ll run off instead.”
There’s another round of laughter. Arthur shakes his head. “It’s been too long since we’ve had a good hunt.”
“You’re telling us,” Gwaine jokes with a groin, “you’ve been insufferable for nearly two months.”
Arthur swats at his leg half-heartedly. “Is that why you packed three of Cook’s stolen birds?”
“Oh, those are for me.”
To which half the camp immediately besieges him and his bags until he’s fending them all off with a stick.
“Back!” Gwaine roars, swiping at them. “Back, I say!”
“He’s like some great troll,” Lancelot laughs, to which Gwaine hunches his shoulders and makes these great panting breaths.
“Smells like one too.”
“OI!”
Arthur laughs along with the rest of them as Gwaine settles back down, still pouting and clutching his stick. “That’s not a half-bad impression, honestly.”
“Oh, and you’ve seen a great many trolls have you?”
Elyan kicks him. “Didn’t you hear? One almost married King Uther.”
Gwaine’s mouth drops open and his eyes nearly bug out of his head. “King Uther. Hates magic, head stuck up his arse—“
“Hey,” Arthur breaks in, “he is still the King. And my father.”
“Aye, and you’re telling me he almost married a troll?”
“There wasn’t much of an ‘almost’ about it.” Lancelot takes a bite of dried meats and nods his head in the direction Merlin had gone. “From the way Merlin tells it, he did marry a troll and it was only afterwards that they broke the enchantment.”
Gwaine’s guffaw startles a flock of nearby birds as he nearly falls over himself with the force of his laughter. The rest of the camp follows soon behind, except for Leon.
Elyan notices first, reaching over to lightly shake the knight’s shoulder. “What’s the matter?”
“He’s probably remembering the Council meetings,” Arthur sighs, lazing back against a tree, “he had to convince my father not to let Bayard of Mercia visit while the Queen was a troll sitting on top of a dung heap.”
Leon doesn’t laugh, nor does he look away from the direction Merlin had gone. Elyan follows his gaze, but doesn’t see anything other than the trees and the slope of the hill leading down towards the river. He puts his hand on Leon’s shoulder again.
“What troubles you, brother?”
“He was crying.”
The camp sobers. Gwaine sits up a little straighter as Lancelot furrows his brow. "What?”
“Merlin.” Leon glances over at them before returning to his stalwart watch. “He was crying as he left.”
Arthur huffs. “Merlin cries at a butterfly that falls from a flower, it’s hardly a novelty.”
“Still,” Lancelot says, sitting up, “it’s hardly something we should take lightly.”
Arthur glances at him, his mouth twisting back and forth as he thinks. Then he grunts, sitting up and putting his elbows on his knees. He scrubs a hand over his face. “Does anyone know why Merlin might be crying?”
“The thing with the tree?” Percival suggests. “He did almost fall from his horse.”
“That was hours ago.”
“You did startle him,” Elyan points out, gesturing to Percival. “Perhaps it was that.”
“Merlin jumps at about half a dozen things every minute, he doesn’t cry over them.”
”Maybe it doesn’t have to do with us.” Lancelot runs his fingers over the grip of his glove. “He hardly told anyone when his mother fell ill until Gwaine found him gathering herbs during the witching hour.”
They fall silent at that, the image of Merlin stubbornly refusing to shed a tear in front of them, hands twisted around the sprig of white sage as though he meant to wring its neck. How he hadn’t said a single word about his mother until Gaius had instead, how he’d refused to let them help until Arthur basically ordered the next patrol to pass near enough to Cenred’s kingdom to permit a detour to Merlin’s village. How he’d stayed up all night at his mother’s bedside until she was better and only then had he smiled.
Gwaine shifts his eight. “How is his mother? Has he said recently?”
“Last I heard she was still doing well.” Arthur follows Leon’s gaze. “I don’t…if it’s something like that, it’s not that.”
Elyan glances at Leon, who has yet to offer an opinion of his own. “What do you think it is?”
Leon doesn’t say anything for another moment. Then he turns and looks at the deer’s head. It’s sitting atop a flat rock near to where Merlin had been sitting when they killed it. Its body lies mostly beyond the rock, halfway out of the clearing, and from this angle it almost looks as if it’s just sleeping. A flower blooms near its muzzle and in the fading light, it near looks as though the dear could come alive and nibble it away at any moment.
Arthur follows his gaze. Something flickers across his expression. “He never was very good on hunts. Never liked the fact that it was to kill something.”
”He said it wasn’t hurting anything,” Gwaine adds, voice lowered. “You think he’s upset because we killed it anyway?”
“It’s only a deer,” Arthur says, but his voice is weaker.
“You’re right. It is only a deer.” Lancelot sighs. “And we killed it anyway. You said it yourself, Merlin doesn’t like hunts. He’s been under just as much pressure as we have, this…this wasn’t the same for him as it was for us.”
They fall back into silence.
After another moment, Leon stands. He moves off into the forest after Merlin, his red cloak vanishing between the trees. When his footsteps have faded into the ambient rustle of the forest, Elyan turns to the rest of them.
“Have I lost it, or did it seem like he was angry at us?”
“I felt it too.”
“You think he knows what’s actually going on?”
“I think he’s figured it out and he’s not pleased that we didn’t.” Arthur scrubs a hand over his face. “So it probably wasn’t the deer.”
”Or wasn’t just the deer.”
“What else could it be?” Percival picks up another branch and tosses it on the fire. “Did he get hurt when he ran into that tree and didn’t tell us?”
“He didn’t look hurt.”
“He’s Merlin, he’d break his arm and tell us it’s fine if we let him.”
“When did he start to look upset?”
“The moment we’d left Camelot,” Arthur says, eyes on the forest, “he had that twist in his mouth he gets when he’s upset at something.”
Gwaine rolls his eyes. “See, it’s hard for you to say you two aren’t married when you say things like that, Princess.”
“Shut up,” Arthur bites out, “this isn’t the time.”
Silence falls again.
“Whatever it is,” Lancelot says quietly, “when he gets back, we’ll ask him what’s wrong.”
Leon makes his way slowly through the woods. The sounds of camp fade behind him as he nears the river. No small part of him is frustrated that the others had yet to realize what it was that made Merlin so upset, but the majority is simply worried.
Merlin, despite what most people might think, was not one to express true discomfort. He would complain, surely, as much as any man would just to break the silence or grumble good-naturedly about something for the sake of appearances, but Merlin would scarcely breathe a word about something that truly, truly upset him. That fact alone had caused Leon more strife than he would care to admit.
He pushes aside another tree branch and there, at the base of the river, is Merlin. His horse stands next to him, its nose snuffling protectively at his hair. His shoulders shake. With no small ache in his chest, Leon realizes that his crying has only gotten worse.
He steps forward and accidentally kicks a rock. He raises his hand to pacify Merlin as he whirls around, only to shoot forward and catch him when the poor man almost overbalances into the river.
“Are you alright?”
Merlin’s face sets into a determined scowl and he takes Leon’s hand from him with a muttered thanks. He cannot fault Merlin’s discontent with him, not when he has played a part in upsetting him so, but he cannot deny that the ache in his chest is steadily worsening. As he looks at him, scratches and scrapes from his near-fall make themselves apparent and he sets about cleaning them up.
Poor Merlin looks as though he’s about to flee into the river as Leon carefully takes his face in hand, clearing the cuts with a handkerchief. At every sting he tries to gentle further, blowing on the raw and reddened skin in an effort to lessen the pain. When Merlin begins to cry again, he can’t help himself; he sets the handkerchief aside and cradles Merlin’s face proper, penitence lacing his movements as he wipes away his tears.
“I’m sorry. I should have realized.”
Merlin glares at him through his tears. A cold gust of wind makes him shiver and Leon opens his arms.
“Come here,” he coaxes with no small amount of hope, let me take care of you, I’m sorry, please, Merlin, let me help you.
Merlin folds himself into the too-small space between his arms. Leon wraps his cloak over him—how Merlin lets himself weather the chill of nights without so much as a hood, he’ll never understand—and Merlin shudders, pressing his nose into his neck. he closes his eyes, hand carding through his hair, alternating between soft hushing noises and murmuring sorry, sorry, I’m sorry.
"There, now," he manages, "there you are…forgive me, Merlin, I didn't realize they were hurting you so much. That we were hurting you so much."
"Why are you so mean to me," come the words that threaten to undo him, "why are you always so mean?"
"I don't know," because he doesn’t, doesn’t know what in the world could convince him that it was acceptable to hurt Merlin like this. "I'm sorry."
"It hurts, you know, when you all say those things. And when you hit me. And throw things at me."
"I'm sorry."
"Why are you so mean," Merlin sobs, "why— why?"
Leon closes his eyes, tightening his hold. Merlin’s fist thuds into his shoulder and he takes it. It’s only fair, after all. He feels Merlin draw his hand back as if to strike him again, but it doesn’t come.
“Go on, Merlin,” he murmurs, ”it’s alright.”
But I don't want to. I don't want to hurt you. I know what that's like, it hurts, it doesn't feel good, I just—you just—I just want it to stop!"
"It'll stop," Leon says immediately, "it's over, now, Merlin, I swear to you. No more of this, I swear."
"It hurts, L-Leon, it—it really hurts."
"Shh, shh, I know, Merlin…hush, now, please, try and breathe a bit slower."
The poor man is practically hyperventilating at this point and he rests a hand on his back. He exaggerates his own breaths, rubbing to encourage Merlin to try and follow along. Gasping sobs and wheezing inhales choke themselves into his shoulder and he swallows the ache in his chest. Now is not the time for his guilt.
"There,” he says with no small amount of relief when Merlin begins to follow along, “in…and out…in…and out…that's it, shh, just like that."
After a long while of shuddering breaths, Merlin finally sags into him. He shifts his weight to hold them both more comfortably, the horse nickering its approval as he tucks Merlin’s head more securely into the crook of his neck. Like this, he can feel the slight dampness of Merlin’s cheeks and the way his breath is still uneven. At the very least the worst of the tears seem to have waned. The remaining sobs are softer, easier. He would fall on his sword before he let something hurt Merlin in this moment.
“I wish…”
His heart pounds at the words whispered into his collar. He adjusts his grip in wordless encouragement. Merlin swallows heavily.
“…I wish I didn’t have to hurt to get this.” His fingers curl into Leon’s cloak. “You’re only nice to me when I’m hurt.”
Leon has to close his eyes for a long moment to choke back the wave of grief that threatens to overwhelm him.
"I have failed, then," he manages, "more terribly than I could ever have feared, if you do not know how deeply I care for you."
"W-what?"
Leon moves away, cradling Merlin’s face in his hand. “You are a dear friend of mine, Merlin, and it is an honor to serve with you. Ever since the day you arrived and saved the Prince's life—hush, shh, none of that, now," he soothes when Merlin panics, "your secret is safe with me, I swear upon my honor and my life. I mean every word that I say, Merlin, you are one of the best men I have ever had the privilege of knowing, and more than that, you are a dear friend. If I have not made that clear to you, that is no one's fault but my own."
"You'll make me cry," Merlin accuses, even though he's already crying.
"Come, then, shed your tears. I will tend to you."