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The times tried our Souls….
***
When he was perhaps six or seven the boys in the village wouldn’t play with him. They called him ‘Bastard’ and pushed him into a tree.
They left him sniffling, slumped against the trunk as they ran off laughing.
His mother found him a while later, still under that same tree, tear tracks down his face and a large graze on one cheek.
She hugged him tight and led him back to their home where she gently cleaned him up, wrapped him in a blanket, and sang him to sleep.
*
When he had seen fourteen summers he was no longer small and scrawny, but tall and gangly. His arms and legs seemed to have been stretched, making even the smallest tasks, like walking, seem alike balancing on a tightrope.
Will found this endlessly amusing, and he was still chuckling at Merlin going face down into a patch of mud when they came back to the village, to see a gaggle of women around Merlin's front door.
“It’s not natural Hunith!” one of the women had barked, a murmur of agreement passed through the group.
When Merlin caught his mother’s fierce eyes he followed the unspoken command and left Wills side, retreating to the safety of their hut.
Merlin shut his ears against the angry words outside and waited for his mother to return.
She was almost vibrating with anger when she did, pacing the small hut back and forth.
“I’m sorry.” Merlin whispered, for many things, for being different, for causing his mother more work than she already had.
The anger in her shoulders melted away and she knelt on the floor by Merlin's feet. “Oh my boy.” She cupped his cheek, “You have nothing to be sorry for. Just… you must be more careful.”
“I will mother.”
That night he made his mother dinner and didn’t let her lift a finger in cleaning. Once they had eaten he conjured a butterfly from nothing and viewed in delight at his mother’s bright smile.
*
Merlin’s first day in Camelot was also the first day he’d ever seen anyone beheaded before.
The head rolled away from the body, its eyes unseeingly open. When it finished its journey it stopped, facing Merlin, the eyes boring into him in seeming condemnation. The body lay limp, blood still squirting from the neck. He could smell the metallic tang from where he stood; he didn’t know how the people near the front could stand it.
His stomach rolled in protest of his sense’s and Merlin’s meagre lunch was about to make a reappearance when a harsh wind swept through a crowd and all he could see was a grieving mother.
*
Drinking poison wasn’t what they made it out to be in fairy tales.
At first there was blissful darkness, a heaviness that settled in his chest making its rise and fall seem like the most arduous of tests.
But then the fire.
It burned through him, ravaging his body in heat and pain but the only release he could find for his exhausted body was a small whimper.
It ripped through him until there was seemingly nothing left. Just pain, fire, and the feeling that something was very wrong.
Afterwards his aching body craved sleep, craved rest. But if closed his eyes he feared he would be dragged back to that place, where everything burned and withered. So he sat on the small bench, the blanket around his shoulder his only comfort and missed his mother with an aching.
When Arthur visited he dredged up a smile that felt totally fake, no one seemed to notice.
*
Will died.
Merlin stood in front of his best friends burning pyre.
Everyone else had gone. Only he remained. Arthur’s admonishment in the back of his mind.
‘You know it’s dangerous’
He wanted to curl up and stay here. In this quiet village where nothing happened. Where he had no destiny, he was the Bastard child of a peasant women, worrying about whether the next harvest would be fruitful.
But his mother’s voice rang true and loud through the fog of grief.
‘He needs you’
He turned from the pyre and began to pack the prince’s bags for their trip back to Camelot.
*
Even after all that had happened; after Arthur, his mother, Gaius, were all resting peacefully asleep. No threat of untimely demise hanging above their heads. Merlin sat, his knees pulled up to his chest which still stung from Nimeh’s blast, staring at his hands.
They still shook. These hands that had killed, that had taken a life. They felt foreign to him. It was easier to think that than to think of the pure rage and hatred that had soared through his veins, through his heart.
Calling lightening from the sky had seemed easy, child’s play, as he swatted an annoying gnat out of existence.
As much as he could argue the logic: that he had to do it, he was saving innocent people’s lives, his mother, Gaius, it still came down to one thing.
He had taken someone’s life in a fit of rage. He could never take that back. He was a murderer.
Arthur called for him in the morning and he clenched his hands, tried to wash the lack of sleep off his face and went to his master’s side.
*
She had been beautiful, and innocent, and pure. Everything Merlin wished he could be.
And when she smiled at him he felt like he was good enough.
Then Arthur killed her.
He shoved a sword into her flesh, through her muscles and organs, and she ceased to be.
The lake was as beautiful and tranquil as she had been.
He shed tears by her watery grave, not only for an innocent life lost, but for that dream that he knew could never be.
That wasn’t his destiny.
The line of boots and polishing kit that sat in Arthur’s chamber might as well have been a direct order from the man himself.
Merlin huffed, and lost himself in the monotony.
*
A Serket sting is revered as one of the most painful ways to go.
The stinger itself is sharp but jagged. Tearing your flesh on its exit.
And the poison devours you from the inside out. It eats through your flesh and bone, leaving an indent at the entry point. Once it enters your blood it boils, ravaging your insides until they are pulverised.
When Arthur asked where he had been, Merlin paused, trying to come up with the words to describe the feeling of been eaten from the inside out, but he couldn’t quite get it right.
He settled for a small shrug and “I was dying.”
*
Flashes and images soared through his head. Searing into his retinas. He just wanted them to stop, stop! But everywhere he turned there were more.
It feels like someone is shoving sand into your ears. There’s just no room for any more but still it keeps on coming, tearing through everything else.
As Merlin sat on the rock staring into nothing he could still see it all in the back of his mind, one after the other and the other.
Something soft hit the side of his head and he remembered where he was. He had to get Arthur back to Camelot. He could worry about everything once the Prince was tucked safely in bed.
*
It wasn’t until he had helped drag Lancelot away from the crumbling hall that he felt the pain. Be it adrenaline, or magic, he didn’t know, but the sharpness and suddenness brought him to his knees.
He was vaguely aware of a frantic Gaius calling his name, but all he could hear was his blood rushing through his ears.
Later, he blinked his eyes open to see Lancelot propped on a stool next to him. He glanced down at the bandages binding his chest and flicked a glance over to the Knight watching him with a frown.
“Two cracked ribs,” Lancelot announced, “a dislocated shoulder and twenty stitches from glass cuts.”
“Huh.” Merlin replied. That list of injuries was impressive even for him, but nothing life threatening, just painful. He started to push himself gently from the bed.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the knight scolded, hobbling up from his own perch, his leg wrapped tightly in bandages. “You are to rest until Gaius says you are fit.”
“I’ve got things to do Lancelot.” Merlin grunted, finally reaching vertical, “I can rest when I am dead.”
“That’s not funny!” the Knight snapped.
Merlin looked into Lancelot’s furious eyes, he allowed himself that moment to catalogue the expression, he had never seen the calm man this agitated before.
He sent the knight an apologetic look before walking as quickly as he could from the chambers.
*
When Arthur was fed and asleep and the knights all had rooms to rest in, when he had searched every inch of the castle for Morgana and Morgause, and the cup, helped to clear a small part of the debris and helped in the infirmary, Gaius’ unimpressed stare on the back of his neck the whole time (when his ribs and shoulder protested too much for him to continue moving); Merlin returned to his Chambers.
Lancelot was asleep now in the patient’s bed. Merlin smiled and draped the extra blanket across the Knights sleeping form.
Merlin swallowed one of Gaius’ tonic’s in one, hoping it eased the constant pain in his side and back before falling into a fitful sleep.
*
One would think that coldness was numbing.
It wasn’t
The pain was sharp and it penetrated everywhere, from his fingers to his heart and back again. It was relentless, like being stung by thousands of needles, one after the other.
The pain was only surpassed by the feeling of warmth returning to his skin.
It burnt.
Every friendly pat, every comforting arm. They were like white hot brands against his flesh that his muscles were too slow to pull away from.
When he woke beside a stream, the haze suddenly gone form the world, he could still feel the phantom pain, still remember the fear of being helpless when his limbs wouldn’t obey.
He lay gathering himself for a moment before he rolled his head to see a shoulder draped in Pendragon red. Lancelot…
“Arthur!” Merlin gasped sitting upright too quickly. His brain seemed to protest by banging against his skull.
When the white dots cleared he looked at the sleeping knights face, he looked awful. Noble idiot that he was, he probably rode right through till the horses could no longer go on.
Breakfast. Merlin thought. Then he would go save the other noble idiot from himself.
***
… And through the darkness we overcame.
***
It had been six days.
Arthur played those final moments over and over in his head, every night, every council session, trying to pick out the one mistake he made that would have changed everything.
It had been six days since Merlin and young Gerwaint had been captured.
The bandits had come from nowhere, there was no way he could have anticipated the attack. He went over his blocks, his parries, his attacks.
He’d had enough time to grab Merlin by the scruff of the neck, drag him from the centre of the fight, and fling him to the tree line with a terse order to ‘stay put’.
But try as he might, the rest of the scuffle was a blur.
Swing left, Swing right, block, lunge. All becoming mechanical and mindless after so many years.
And as sudden as the fight had begun it was over. The last remaining ruffians fleeing into the forest.
It always takes a moment to come down from the rush of combat. Arthur always used those moments to take stock of the situation.
Arms and legs: mainly intact, a small gash on the thigh, shallow, stings. Head: undented. Ribs: sore, maybe bruised, no cracks or breaks. Sword: in need of a sharpen. Armour : a few dents. Merlin…
Arthur’s head had whipped around then to the tree he had placed Merlin under.
… Gone
*
Arthur hadn’t been prepared for the lance of worry that pierced his chest. He swung his head from left to right, searching for the mop of black hair and the sweep of brown amongst the red.
“Merlin!?” he called.
The knights gaze’s all landed on him at the sound of his worried call, but he paid them no mind.
“Merlin you can stop cowering now! The fight is over.”
But there was no response. By now his calls were joined by a frantic Gwaine and Percival scouring the tree line. He chose to ignore Elyan and Leon as they turned over the faces of dead and dying on the forest floor, Merlin would be there... Couldn’t be there.
Percival’s rough shout pulled them all towards a thicket of bushes at the south end of the clearing.
Arthur had to push through the crowd of knights to see what had caught their attention.
It was Merlin’s red neckerchief, pinned to the tree, deliberately and in plain sight, with an arrow. Its grey end feathers and black wooden shaft immediately identifying it as one used by King Lot and his mercenaries.
But... Arthur came closer… the rough scrap of material didn’t look right, seemed the wrong colour, the red much deeper and darker than it usually was.
Arthur lifted his hand up to the material to pull it down but pulled his hand away quickly.
Blood. It was soaked in blood.
*
So now it had been six days, each one ticking past slowly, the twisting in Arthur’s gut churning ever more tightly. Cursed as he was to sit in his large castle sending his knights out on the search.
Aggravaine smiled and patted his shoulder. Telling him he was making the right choice, that his knights were well trained.
All the while Arthur wanted to scream at him. That Merlin was his manservant, that he was his friend, that he was his. And that he should be there when he is found.
Arthur knew more than any what could be happening to Merlin and Gerwaint right now. And he wished… he didn’t wish he could be ignorant, but he knew the methods that would be used to extract whatever information King Lot desired.
The secrets Merlin held did not concern him. Perhaps if it did he could sleep at night.
Perhaps if he knew Merlin would take the easy route and would spill everything King Lot wanted to hear that he could eat a full meal without feeling like gagging.
But he knew the methods, he knew what secrets Lot wanted access to, and more importantly he knew Merlin. And he knew – knew to the depths of his soul – that Merlin will not talk.
And that frightened him more than anything else.
*
It was on the sixth day that the council doors burst open, a panting Leon spilling through.
His face was a mixture of relief, joy and anguish. And Arthur knew before the knight opened his mouth that Merlin had been found.
*
The horses raced into the courtyard. The red capes of Camelot flying out behind them.
Merlin wasn’t the first that he saw.
First he saw young Gerwaint. The knights still body covered in a borrowed cloak, only his blackened hand showing as he was carefully lifted down by Elyan and Bohrs.
His brothers were respectful. All bowing their heads in remorse as their fallen comrade passed.
But Arthur’s gaze was now zeroed in on the second horse, where a tight lipped Gwaine gripped a limp body in his arms, lowering it down to a waiting Percival.
Arthur couldn’t tell were the injuries ended and skin began.
The body was a swirl of white and red and blue and black. The clothes were torn and dirty. The hair was matted with blood, the trail carrying on past the ears, down the neck and back. Like some awful parody of a knights cape.
Arthur took a step forward. To comfort, to see, to feel, he didn’t know.
But then there was a flurry of movement, and Gaius’ appeared from the castle. Stony faced but the eyes were full of fear and worry. And in a moment Merlin was gone.
Gwaine stayed frozen by his horse, staring at his hands. As Arthur neared he saw Gwaine wasn’t looking at his hands, he was looking at the blood, Merlin’s blood, that coated them thickly.
Arthur’s hand to his shoulder made him jerk, his eyes flying up wild like a scared horse.
“Are you alright?” Arthur asked, voice low and rough.
Gwaine swallowed thickly, his eyes going far away for a moment. “I don’t know how he is alive.” Gwaine’s voice was barley a whisper, “When we got there, we could – I could hear his screams.”
And Arthur clenched his jaw because he didn’t want to know, didn’t need any further fuel to his nightmares. He almost felt guilty at the relief he felt when Gwaine broke off to heave against the castle wall.
*
Gaius’ room was full of movement and chaos.
Gaius was stern and direct, like a general in battle organising his troops.
Percival sat behind Merlin’s body on the bed, supporting, restraining. A nameless page was sent to fetch water, Leon was ordered to cut away the scraps left of Merlin’s tunic and trousers.
Arthur stood frozen, not wanting to get any closer but not daring to turn away. It was worse than he had imagined.
Merlin’s skin had been flawless, now it was marred by the lacerations criss-crossing across his back, overlapping and intersecting, pieces of skin hanging loosely away.
His arm hung crooked and limp to the side, his thighs and buttocks awarded the same treatment as his back and his chest an ensemble of black and blue.
The arm was first, being pulled into place with a sickening crack that pulled a heart-breaking cry from Merlin’s lips. Arthur doubted he was ever fully conscious.
Gaius’ hands were sure but his eyes shone fear as he cleaned and treated Merlin’s back, stitching the deepest of the wounds. But still Arthur hadn’t moved.
Men came, obviously, looking for their King, careful suggestions that he had things to do. Of course there were, he had a kingdom to run. But Arthur couldn’t even contemplate moving from his spot.
It wasn’t until what felt like hours later when Gaius finally stepped back, running a shaking arm across his sweating forehead that Arthur gained motion.
It was like gravity, pulling him towards the body on the bed the bruised, broken, but miraculously alive body.
It took a while to realise someone was talking to him and Arthur looked up from his knees where he had fallen by Merlin’s bed.
“-recover sire.” Gaius was saying.
Arthur blinked a few times, was mind catching up. He wondered briefly when he had clasped Merlin’s limp hand in his.
“What?”
“I said Merlin needs rest and time. The wounds were intended to be painful, but not necessarily lethal.”
“Torture.”
Gaius swallowed heavily, his gaze flicking towards the slumbering man, “I believe so.”
It shouldn’t have felt like a blow to the chest.
Arthur knew, Arthur had known, what the possibilities had been when Merlin had been gone. Had thought through every strategy and reason why an enemy King would want to take the Kings servant. The only reasons he came up with weren’t good.
And Merlin… from the state of his injuries and the steady rise of his chest… hadn’t given anything away.
King Lot would have taken him for his perceived weakness. A scrawny servant amongst knights. And beneath the worry and the terror churning away inside him and small spark of pride erupted, that his servant, his friend, defied a King and all his best efforts.
*
Council sessions were always dull but this one seemed to be dragging on for an age.
Arthur’s elbow rested upon the wood, his head balancing perilously against his fist.
Once the old advisor had finished drawling on about.. whatever he had been drawling about… Arthur quickly dismissed them all and very regally – fled.
Young George was waiting as expected outside, as servants are supposed to do, and they trailed silently back to his chambers.
“… laundry is done, also your horse is watered and fed. And your armour is polished. I have begun to use a particular make of cloth that I am finding has excellent results on the shine.”
Arthur grunted back to the present and realised that George had managed to get him out of his formal clothes and cloak without him even noticing. And now seemed to be poised ready at the edge of the room awaiting instructions… or god forbid, tell another joke.
“That will be all for tonight George. I shall see you in the morning.”
“Excellent Sire. Oh and before I go… one of the pages tried to deliver a message whilst the council was in session. I, naturally, told him it could wait, but he seemed quite instant.”
“What was it George?” Arthur slumped tiredly down to the edge of his bed, rolling his neck from side to side to remove the stiffness.
“Your servant seems to have gained consciousness.”
“What!” Arthur went from slumped on the bed to upright in a matter of moments. His knees and back protested but he paid them no mind. He was out the room and flying down the corridor before George had even finished his response.
*
Thoughts flew through Arthur’s mind as fast as the scenery did as he flew through his corridors.
The closer he got the more dread outweighed his overwhelming relief.
He had known men, good strong men, knights and kings and princes, reduced to shells of themselves after capture.
Men who would stare into nothing, men who withdrew into themselves as if that was the only person in the world that wouldn’t hurt them.
There had been men that had taken their grief out in drink only to perish months later, men who turned reckless in battle causing more than one death, including their own, and the more direct men who took daggers to their wrists at midnight.
All had been good men, all Arthur had known.
And now he stood at the door that separated him from one of the best men and he hesitated.
What would he do? If Merlin turned to drink? If Merlin turned to fear? If Merlin turned to death? To escape his reality.
If Merlin’s goofy smile had been forever snuffed, if his wry sense of humour had been drained out of him.
Arthur swallowed, his shaking hand pushing open the door before he could think too much.
It didn’t matter.
Merlin wasn’t just any man. He was Arthur’s man, his best. And Arthur would face down legions for him.
*
“Arthur.”
Arthur’s gaze swept over the man in the bed in front of him.
He was laid on his side. One arm strapped close to his chest and bandages plastered along the length of his naked back.
The blanket was pooled around the man’s waist allowing Arthur an unrestricted few of his battered chest.
“Thank God you’re here.” That voice rasped again. Arthur trailed his eyes up to the face. It was pale, the eyes sunken. But the mouth… it was stretched into a smile. “Gaius is nice company but he keeps trying to shove what I think is frogs paste down my throat.”
The face frowned now, a crease forming between the eyebrows.
“Arthur? Are you alright?”
That snapped him from his stare.
“Merlin!” he growled, “Am I alright? You idiot. You’ve been unconscious for three days!”
“Gaius mentioned.”
Arthur went back to staring, in disbelief this time, at this frustrating, unbelievable, idiotic, foolish-
“He also told me about Gerwaint. I am sorry Arthur. I know you liked him.”
“He was a good knight. A good man. He will be missed.”
“He was very brave.” Merlin croaked, “You would have been proud of him. Just… his injuries were too severe. He took a blow to the head in our capture which I don’t think he ever fully recovered from.”
Arthur stared and wanted to ask.
What happened? What did Lot wanted? Did Gerwaint break? What did they do to you?
But he didn’t. He grit his jaw and swallowed the questions down. Now wasn’t the time.
He rested a hand on Merlin’s hair and pressed a kiss to his brow.
“I am glad you are alright.”
*
It was as if Merlin’s awakening jump started life again in the castle. Arthur suddenly had a millions things to do and only one day to do them in.
His meeting with Leon on the Knights training was the last thing of the day and he had already gotten rid of George hours ago.
When the formal part of their meeting was over Leon would stay for a small drink. Sometimes it was silent, the two knowing each other for too many years to have need to fill any silence. But tonight there was too much on their minds
“I saw Merlin today.” Leon began. The fire had been crackling for some time, warming Arthur through to his bones, making him languid and sleepy.
“Did you?” Arthur sat up, he hadn’t had a chance to stop by the physicians chambers yet today, “How did he seem?”
“Oh you know very… Merlin.” Leon chuckled.
“That is what I was afraid of.”
Leon frowned and straightened at his Kings tone “Sire?”
“He was the same when I saw him yesterday. Smiling, joking… He was too alright for someone who has been kidnapped and tortured for the best part of a week.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying he will crack.” Arthur sighed, running a distracted hand through his hair. “He has to crack at some point. He’s a servant; he has never had to deal with anything like this before… I don’t know what is going on in his head and it makes me nervous.”
“Surely you can’t think he is a danger?”
“To others, god no! To himself…” Arthur let that trail off and stared back into the fire for a while. “Speaking of dangers to themselves... I haven’t seen Sir Gwaine in a few days.”
“No one has sire.” Leon exhaled, shaking his head. “He was last seen entering the Rising Sun when he returned from rescuing Merlin.”
“What are the chances he is still there?”
“I would say they were high.”
“Perfect.” Arthur huffed. “A ticking time bomb servant and a drunkard wallowing knight. Does he even know Merlin is awake?”
“I think Percival passed on the message.”
“And he hasn’t stopped sobered up to visit yet?”
“I think he is scared of what he will find.”
Arthur thought of his hesitation at entering Merlin’s room, about the doubts that still plagued him, and felt he could sympathise completely.
*
Sympathising didn’t mean that he allowed his hard trained knights to ruin themselves in drink.
His long blue cloak hid his face as he meandered through Camelot’s deserted streets to their tavern.
It was one of the knights’ favourite haunts. A booth in the far corner always cleared for them when they arrived.
But it was empty tonight save for one knight who had long abandoned his red cape in favour of his old travelling clothes. Comfort.
Gwaine’s hair fell long and greasy over his face, hiding the beginning of a beard and tired, haunted eyes. He didn’t show any awareness when Arthur sat on the stool next to him. Instead he stared into the dregs of ale left in his tankard, as if they held the meaning of life itself.
“He is awake you know.” Arthur began. There was no explanation needed for why he was here, or who they were discussing.
“I heard.” Gwaine croaked, swigging the remains from his tankard. But he didn’t look at his King.
“He’s asking for you.”
“…How is he?”
“Sore. Bored. Driving Gaius insane. What do you think?”
“What do I-“ Gwaine cut himself off and seemed to steady himself. “I was there; I saw where they were keeping him. I saw their… instruments. And your description is ‘sore’?!”
Arthur allowed his Knights his burst of anger, then allowed him a moment to swallow down the tears, and rage that threatened to break free. But only a moment.
“You are right. What happened was horrific. And the fact that it happened to Merlin…” was unthinkable, deplorable, completely and utterly unjust and unfair, and he wanted to rage and scream to the Gods. “… But he will need his friends. When it sets in, when he comprehends what he survived, he will need us all. And this,” Arthur pulled the now empty tankard away from Gwaine swiftly, “will not help him.”
Arthur need not say more. And when he visited Merlin the next lunch Gwaine was there, freshly shaven, clean and making Merlin laugh.
*
Maybe it should have been the end of it then.
Or maybe the end should have been when Merlin was allowed from his bed to sit at Gaius’ table.
Or maybe it was when he had recovered enough strength to feed and bath himself.
But it wasn’t, not for Arthur anyway.
The feeling you get standing on the ridge of a hill, staring down your enemies below you, knowing that any minute they will attack, or the order will come for you to advance. Your heart beats, your skin sweats, and your brain is painfully sharp.
It is exhausting. And Arthur lived it every day.
But Merlin still had not cracked.
Oh he had become moody and sullen when Gaius’ wouldn’t let him from their chambers. He had groaned in pain and bitten his lip hard enough to bleed when Gaius examined his arm. He had shed a single perfect tear when Arthur helped him down to Gerwaint’s memorial.
But he had not cracked.
*
It was a day like any other that signalled the beginning of the end for Arthur.
He had gotten into the habit of dropping by the physicians chambers after his morning council sessions. Normally by then Merlin was dressed and up in the main room assisting in whatever way Gaius allowed. Usually no more strenuous than turning the page of a book.
This day he entered to find the main room empty.
Now, this wasn’t that unusual. Gaius was not the only physician in Camelot, but being the Royal Physician meant he was the most sought after. He was often called to women in labour or broken bones at all times of the day or night.
When alone Merlin would retreat to his rooms.
Arthur had often thought of gifting Merlin chambers of his own, closer to his and the heart of the castle. Part of his argument was that this may give Merlin a chance to actually be on time for once, but a more honest part of his brain told him it was to keep Merlin as close as he could. But the boy seemed strangely fond of his small rooms with their loose floorboards and one window, granted it did have a fantastic view.
But as Arthur gently knocked and pressed open the wooden door he found the small room empty.
And the flame of worry seeming forever burning these days flared.
*
He wasn’t in the armoury, he wasn’t in the stables, he wasn’t in the kitchens or the knights quarters.
The knights hadn’t seen him, nor the servants or the cook who chased the king from the kitchen’s with a ladle. And Arthur was starting to suspect that every guard of Camelot was deaf, dumb or blind, or all three.
Arthur was aware that he looked half deranged, running through the castle shouting and interrogating every person he came across, he had already had to dodge George twice as the servant tried to fight him into his ceremonial cloak for the hearing he was due at.
But none of them understood.
It was a page, a small shivering, frightened page who looked up at Arthur with such fear Arthur was surprised he could still stand, that finally gave him direction to his madness.
“Um – I saw him… I think.”
“You think!”
“Sorry sire… yes I saw him, on his way to the turrets.”
The turrets…
The turrets of Camelot castle were high circular towers of white stone, stretching high up above the cobbled streets. Flags carrying Camelot’s crest fluttered proudly amongst the clouds, easily seen from miles around.
They were a symbol of hope: The turrets, the first sight of Camelot that many saw and the welcome home sign to returning troops.
They were a symbol of security: The turrets, the base for Camelot’s archers, able to fell an army from their strategic placement, well out of reach.
Arthur knew this as he knew every inch of his castle and his home.
But as he raced up every damned stone step only a few thoughts were coherent in his ragged mind.
They were isolated, unguarded and any ‘fall’, accident or otherwise, lethal.
And the turrets were where Merlin had gone.
*
The crisp spring air hit him as the wooden door burst open at his command.
At first the space seemed empty, the only sound the flapping of the Camelot flag above his head.
But then… Arthur swung his gaze frantically left to right… a boot. The King darted forward quickly revealing the leg and then, thank god, the body and finally the face, that was tipped backwards against the stone, the sun bathing the pale skin.
“What the HELL are you doing up here?”
Merlin didn’t startle or even change position, he slowly rolled his head to the side, giving Arthur a crooked look. “I just needed some air, fresh air. It’s definitely spring now.”
A calm peaceful smile fluttered across Merlin’s face as the man took a deep breath and seemed reluctant to let it go.
In the face of this serene picture Arthur felt embarrassment sneak in, his wild ideas of suicidal servants and convenient ledges evaporating into hysteria. And Arthur had to cough to cover up his rising blush.
“It’s cold out here Merlin, you are still not permitted to leave your chambers.”
“My home should not be a prison” Merlin spoke, calmly, but Arthur felt as if the words had physically slapped him. “But you are right… it is rather chilly. Shall we head inside now?”
Arthur led Merlin through the castle, one hand firmly under the servants elbow, which Merlin seemed to tolerate rather than require. Soon, and with minimal effort, they arrived back at the physicians chambers, still empty.
Here Merlin seemed to wrangle himself from Arthur grip and toppled somewhat unsteadily to the bench.
And here Arthur should leave. Should go forth and perform his duties as King and Sovereign to his people. Sign declarations and agree taxes, solve disputes and avert wars. His manservant returned, his quest complete.
And yet…
“Do your bandage’s need changing?”
Merlin looked up from where his head was drooping over an open book “yes but Gaius can-“
“Do you know when Gaius will return? No? Well then let me.”
The two men stared at each other for a moment before the servant huffed and offered his back to the King.
“God, you’ve become bossy since you’ve become King you know, it’s changed you.”
Arthur gathered the bottom of Merlin’s tunic, lifting it carefully over the healing wounds. “I have reliable witnesses that can state I have always been bossy.”
“Yes. That is true. And you’ve always been a brat…”
“Merlin.”
“… and moody…”
“Merlin!”
“And a terrible morning person.”
“For god’s sake Merlin do shut-“
But Arthur stopped. His eyes drawn to his mark at the base of Merlin’s spine. Deep and rough and decidedly older than the wounds above it. A scar. A scar that had no business being there.
It was a large, purple tear drop on pale skin.
Arthur couldn’t help but stare, his mind calculating the speed and strength and the supposed height from which the injury was sustained.
His mind had helpfully conjured a picture of a man of Percival’s stature with a pointed axe.
“… shut…” Merlin encouraged, glancing over his shoulder at the now silent King. “come on Arthur. I know you know the last word.”
But Arthur’s gaze didn’t wander. “What is that?”
“What is what?”
“That – that mark on your back.”
“What?” Arthur watched with detached amusement as Merlin squirmed his head to try and see the bottom of his back.
“Oh for…” Arthur grabbed his friend’s thin hand, pulling it back to run over the large dent in his body where there should be flesh.
“Oh.” Was all Merlin said. He was facing forward now but Arthur felt the slight squaring to his shoulders where his other hand still gripped.
“How-“ Arthur stalled, not knowing what question to ask first, or which ones he wanted the answers to, “When?”
“It doesn’t matter Arthur. Years ago. A long time. I had almost forgotten it was there.”
This did not make it any better. Arthur knew every one of his stain’s, knew the stories and the lesson’s behind them. He did not want to imagine the point at which he would forget about such a mark. At that point he may be more scar than man. “But-“
“But nothing Arthur – it was painful and scary. But I’m fine now.”
Merlin had turned on the bench, his threadbare tunic now fallen back down to hide these imperfections, these flaws.
His blue eyes bored into Arthur’s, as strong as the grip on Arthur’s hand.
“I will be fine.”
Arthur gripped back just as firmly making a vow in his head. ‘Yes you will be my friend. As I will not allow you any other end.’
*
It was as though there was a world of shadows, now thrust into harsh light.
An entire world unlocked to Arthur, through that blemish on pastel skin.
Merlin returned to work and returned to the incompetent servant and wise advisor he had always been.
He still bantered and mocked Arthur, still wore his neckerchiefs along with his new sling. He was still pale but growing stronger.
But Arthur saw none of that.
All he could seem to see now was the way Merlin stared at fire, as if it were his destiny, and his doom, the almost wistful look Merlin gave to the bowl of strawberries Arthur had at dinner.
When Arthur offered him one his smile was sad, almost heart-breaking.
But all of that paled in comparison to the discovery of how much time Merlin seemed to be absent.
Arthur didn’t know how he had never seen it before. To him Merlin was always constantly by his side, an annoying gnat flying around or a soothing balm to his psyche. But either way, always there.
But now he noticed.
It wasn’t anything hugely suspicious. Just Arthur popping by the physicians chambers in an evening to check on Merlin, only to find the small room empty and Gaius snoring in the corner.
Sometimes Arthur was able to track the man down. On the rooftops and battlements, sometimes in the stables, and once in Morgana’s old chambers.
Each time somewhere quiet, remote, and undisturbed.
But each time he found his servant his thoughtful face was swiftly covered with his grin, memories floated to the surface of his thoughts. Times when Merlin wasn’t there, only to return, tired but with a grin on his face…
…. “Where have you been?” … “I was dying.”… “Where is he?”… “Oh, um… the Tavern My Lord.” …
But the nights when he couldn’t find his errant friend were the worst. When he sat, staring into the moonlit courtyard below him waiting for a glimpse of the man returning.
He always woke in the morning, a blanket around his shoulders and a crick in his neck… and Merlin’s smiling face across the room.
*
Arthur was sat in his chair one of those nights. His chair by the window, a bowl of grapes at his side, watching Mother Nature at her best.
Sat in the safety of his chambers, his fires warmth against his back, he couldn’t help but marvel at the almost captivating, hypnotic sight.
It had been a glorious day, warm and dry, the Knights and himself stretching out on the grass bathing in the sunlight after practice. Almost at ease with the world. And then, as the end of day bell struck, the heavens opened, drenching Camelot and its unsuspecting citizens in its mercy.
The rain poured, and the wind churned. The trees in the distance swaying as if to song.
And a man, a solitary figure, walked hunched and cloaked across the darkened courtyard.
Cursing, Arthur jerked upright, his vigil forgotten before he too followed into the night.
*
As if in battle, the storm was more vicious on the ground. The rain stabbing at your skin, the wind battering your body.
The figure weaved quickly and efficiently, as if well practiced, through the houses and pens that lined the lower town, their focus so forward that they didn’t notice their King trailing at their back.
They left the city walls, not sticking to any tracks that Arthur had ever seen, wandering seemingly aimless through the trees until a clearing opened up ahead.
Here the figure stopped.
His head fell back, his shoulders sagged… and he breathed.
He breathed as if a boulder had been removed from his chest, a great sigh celebrating the ease in weight, of relief.
Arthur watched with warring emotions from his shadows. This was it – he could feel it. He could feel it as though it were an enemy’s mark at his back. And he could either wait still, for the blow to come, or parry.
“Merlin!”
The servant turned, his eyes wide with surprised, which rolled up into his head upon seeing the King.
“Oh for God’s sake Arthur! What! What are you doing out here?”
“What am I-“ Arthur shook his head in exasperation and tried to wipe some of the rain from his face, “What are YOU doing out here? If you haven’t noticed it’s a bit damp out.”
“Ooo, our great King scared of a bit of rain.”
“A bit of – Merlin this is a monsoon!”
Merlin looked somewhat sheepishly up at the sky, “yes, it was a bit much I think.”
Which didn’t make any sense to Arthur. The damp had now seeped through his cloak, he grabbed at Merlin’s closest appendage, a fragile wrist, and tugged. “Come on. We’re going back to Camelot.”
“No Arthur.” Merlin squirmed in Arthur grip as the King started dragging them both back to the castle. “Arthur – I said NO!”
A bolt of lightning pierced the sky, striking a tree to the side of the clearing. The flash echoed in Merlin’s eyes, wide open in shock. The wood cracked and splintered, the ageing tree groaning in protest before submission. The clearing echoed as its branch fell to the floor. Merlin used Arthur’s start of fright to extricate himself from the King’s grasp.
Merlin eased as the storm did, the servant taking some deep pulls of air and the wind settled around them, the wild, trapped look in his eyes fading, rain still lashing at Arthur’s cloak. “What do you want from me Arthur?”
Now wasn’t that a question to ask a King. Arthur wanted for Merlin to get inside, out of this weather, wanted him to sit by Arthur’s fire until the heat had seeped back into their bones, but what he wanted, or needed most…
“What I want is for you let it go!” he finally burst, “To get past what happened to you, and let me help you do that!”
“Arthur.” Merlin sighed, his shoulders sagging, “What happened… it happened. No amount of talking about it will undo anything. It was frightening and painful and I am trying to get past it… But you won’t let me.”
“No – I am trying to get you to face up to what happened. Because pretending that it didn’t won’t help anyone.”
“I am dealing with it – in my own way. And my own way needs space and time…” Merlin drifted off before his shrewd eyes zeroed on the King, “But is it really me that needs to get past it?”
“What?”
“Arthur – you are exhausted. You need to sleep.”
“I just want you to be safe. I need you to be fine.”
“And I am. Can’t you see?”
The King suddenly felt very small, a child trapped in the middle of a field. It was dark, and it was raining, and there was a monster hidden behind every tree, just waiting for him to drop his guard, so they could take what was most precious to him. So they could steal and tear and scar his world until he was left alone with nothing worth saving.
But unexpectedly Merlin was in his eyesight.
And he was alive, and whole, just a bit scared.
Arthur couldn’t help but reach out, grip a hand to Merlin’s shoulder, to keep him tethered and grounded.
“I’m fine Arthur.” The servant gripped Arthur’s shoulder himself, so they were a loop, unbreakable, if only Arthur could hold on with everything he had. “And I can look after myself.”
Arthur remembered Merlin drinking poison, lying still on the ground, he remembered the cuts marring his white skin after the cup of life, he remembered Merlin’s dead weight in Percival’s arms, and gripped Merlin’s shoulder tighter.
“No.” he choked out, trying to swallow the lump in his throat, “No you can’t.”
The storm swirled it’s self around them, Arthur and Merlin at the eye.
“What can I do Arthur?” Merlin spoke, “How can I help you?”
Arthur shook his head because this was not how it was supposed to be going. Merlin was the broken one, Merlin was the one who needed help, not him.
Merlin gave him a contemplative look, a look that seemed to read into Arthur’s soul, weighing it to see if he was worthy. And Arthur knew that it wasn’t. How was he supposed to protect a kingdom, a people, if he couldn’t save those closest to him?
“Would it help… if I were to tell you I can take care of myself? That I have a secret weapon that nobody knows of. That saves me, day after day, so I can stay by your side. What would you say?”
“I’d say it doesn’t work very well.”
Merlin snorted his mouth smiling, but his eyes filled with tension, fear. Like a hound to his master it made Arthur jumpy and nervous.
“Sometimes it doesn’t,” Merlin agreed, “it’s not an exact science, chance and bad luck still rule, just like you getting sliced by and enemy sword. It doesn’t mean your sword is any less effective a weapon.”
The wind was settling, the thunder drifting, the rain still fell but now in fat droplets, straight down from the heavens.
“It can be a weapon,” Merlin continued, his eyes staring straight into Arthur’s, “or it can be a shield. It could heal and maim. It can freeze time and fast forward. And it can protect me, and you, and us all… How would you feel about that?”
There wasn’t much thought behind Arthur’s vehement nod. Just echoes of ‘safe’ and ‘protect’ and ‘heal’ bouncing through his head, wrapping blue ethereal light around every image he had of Merlin down and hurt.
The grip on his arm tightened to the point of pain but Arthur couldn’t move, wouldn’t move. The rain had stopped around them, the night had fallen silent, but Arthur couldn’t look away.
Merlin’s eyes burnt bright like the sun and now that blue light wrapped around them both.
Images flashed through Arthur’s skull, a young boy with black hair bleeding and crying, him alone, the violent urge to throw up and a head rolled towards him, pain and anguish and fear and hate and love. And the images pulled back, like being dragged from water and the man was standing in front of him, maybe overburdened and scarred, but not broken, never broken.
Arthur couldn’t help the sob that forced its way up his throat but the man across from him wasn’t sad, the blinding grin on his face bellied the silent tears leaking from his eyes.
*
It’s after a year that Merlin takes Arthur to the lake.
Arthur watches as his warlock summons a flower and lays it on the beach.
The hungry waters lap the stones and they watch side by side as it is taken, swept out into the depths.
*
It is on a summers hunt when Arthur first see’s the red charred circle on Merlin’s chest.
They are alone by the river, the knights already returned to camp for the night.
Arthur places a hand against the ruined flesh, feeling Merlin’s strong heartbeat beneath.
The question in his eyes does not need to be voiced. Merlin tells him in halting speech, of how he had been desperate and angry and formidable. How he had pushed through the pain and taken a life from the world.
His hands shake where they were covering Arthur’s.
*
It’s fifteen years into Arthur’s reign when Merlin takes a pilgrimage to his father’s final resting place.
It is a simple cross stood proudly on the tree line.
And it is times like this when Arthur wonders how his life had ended up here. He sits in the mouth of the cavern and watches as Merlin calls lightning from the sky, moves the wind and summons the rain.
He watches in awe as his friend weaves power over the land that the rest can only dream about.
“Stretching his wings.” Kilgharrah comments from where he rests beside the king, an almost fond tug at the corners of his mouth.
That night Arthur watches as his servant-come-advisor curls up like a babe under the wings of Aithusia and Kilgharrah, his chest rising and falling in peace.
But Arthur doesn’t sleep, he sits and the mouth of the cave, watchful, sharpened sword ready in his hands.
Because Arthur made a pact with himself all those years ago.
Merlin may hold the power of life and death in his hands, may wield fire and command dragons. But underneath he is still a boy, still a man, who has pains and scars Arthur may never know the whole truth of.
And Arthur will never stop trying to save him.