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Merlin was starting to wonder what the point of magic was if half the time he couldn’t even use it to save his own neck; if all it took to render his magic useless was a good conk on the head and an impossible amount of dizziness. And he was sure the only reason he was still alive was because destiny had decided (with some hesitancy) “nope, not yet,” but that it also certainly didn’t give a flying fig tree how he went about surviving.
Destiny didn’t care that he was currently naked except for a ragged, smelly piece of cloth (that may have been a blanket, or may have been used for things he didn’t want to think about – it smelled that bad) wrapped tightly around his waist and held in place by his desperate but shaky grip. It didn’t care that he’d been kicked and punched and tossed into a deep ravine for good measure, in which climbing out of said ravine had added to the bruises and cuts. And it certainly didn’t care that it was bleeding freezing outside, that if his wrist and shoulder so much as twitched it sent agony ripping through him, and that his right leg pained him mercilessly from his swollen ankle to his throbbing hip. Destiny’s mercy, it seemed, extended only to making the bandits take Merlin’s clothes instead of his life in recompense for his lack of sufficient coin.
Destiny was a prat, a prat to end all prats, out-pratting even Arthur in all prattiness, only keeping Merlin around to serve it’s lazy little whims and laugh as it continued to subject him to the pains and humiliations of being a dogs body while sacrificing everything and everyone just to see an age that refused to get off its lazy arse and be fulfilled already and…!
Merlin’s next unsteady step on the muddy road sent a ripple of hot pain up his leg and into his spine. Merlin cried out, stumbling with the threat of falling, but his scraped shoulder collided with the rough trunk of a tree just in time to prevent another bruising tumble. He was shivering so hard his teeth had started clacking, and while the mud and blood that caked him had dried some time ago, it still managed to act as a sponge, leeching away whatever heat his body had tried to hide away.
But standing around lamenting his lot in life while the cold breezes cut through him wasn’t going to solve anything. He needed to keep moving, keep going, endure the pain and the cold and not think about why the hell the bandits would take his clothes and the way that short, fat one had kept leering at him as they man-handled Merlin roughly, stripping him one article of clothing at a time, as though they had intended far more than taking his raiment…
No. Can’t think about that. Need to keep going.
Merlin pushed weakly away from the tree and limped heavily onward, each step sending pain barking upward from ankle to hipbone. Merlin rubbed his cheek on his shoulder when it itched from something warm and wet sliding from his eye.
Lords, he could already hear Arthur’s complaints as he eyed the mess that was his manservant. Get lost in the woods again, Merlin? Please don’t tell me you let Gwaine talk you into a dice game down at the tavern. Are you really so much of a girl that you can’t keep three bandits from stealing the clothes right off your back?
Merlin knew Arthur wouldn’t be that cruel. The man may have liked a good laugh at Merlin’s expense but not where bandits and bodily harm were concerned. But Merlin was hurting, and cold, and with that right balance of nauseas that if he just threw up he would feel better but his stomach refusing to be that accommodating. And there was the nakedness, of course, except for the smelly bit of dirty cloth that barely wrapped around even his skinny waist. He was covered in mud and blood, and even without an audience it was humiliating (especially when he remembered the way the one man leered, the hands all over him, thoughts of what they might actually be intending… no, don’t think about it, don’t think), and it made it next to impossible to ponder anything else except how much worse this day could get.
The day (or maybe destiny) more than happily answered his question with the sound of approaching horses. Merlin panicked, his mind going straight to more bandits or nobles who would take immediate offense to his lack of clothes. He attempted to hobble off the path into the woods, but twigs, pine cones, pebbles and other bits and bobs hidden by the mossy ground slowed his progress until the clatter of hooves was right behind him.
“Hold up, there! Are you in need of assistance?” Lancelot. It was Lancelot. Which meant the mounted men behind Merlin was the patrol.
“Oi, mate, what happened to you? Lover’s tiff or fixed game of cards?” That was Gwaine. Lords, anyone but Gwaine, with his innuendos and sex jokes and Merlin really, really didn’t need this right now.
But, then, the party of five led by Lancelot and Gwaine had clattered up beside him, some of the men chuckling. Merlin, unable to go any further, huddled against a tree, wishing they would go away, wanting them to stay, not knowing what he wanted because he was so cold and in so much pain that his brain was attempting to shut down. That he was falling apart now after doing what he had thought was a decent enough job of holding it together only added to his humiliation, and he felt the unhelpful flush of embarrassed heat race through him as he clutched his bit of cloth, half fearing (he didn’t know why) that it would be torn away from him (just like his clothes).
Then someone dismounted. The rough leather of a gloved hand settled on his shoulder. Merlin heard Lancelot exclaim, “Merlin?” and the laughter immediately stopped.
There was nothing for it. Merlin had been found, and if he wanted to get this over with (whatever this was, more humiliation, or help, or safety) he had no choice but to turn and face them.
Their faces immediately paled, and after a heartbeat of shocked silence the world seemed to explode with noise – Gwaine and Lancelot demanding what had happened while also demanding if Merlin was alright, Sir Ector giving the orders for the rest of the men to search the area if whoever did this was still around, saddles creaking, horses snorting – so much noise.
Within the noise was a sound, something caught between a pained groaned and a whimper, and it took Merlin’s addled brain a moment to realize that it had come from his own throat. The sound was meant to be an answer to stop all the onslaught of questions, but Merlin’s voice, it seemed, was about as effective as his magic after a clonk on the head. Because when he tried again, all that came out of his mouth was a slur of words vibrating with the force of his shivers.
Then something soft and, when Merlin glanced down, red was wrapped around him, hiding his nakedness, taking away a large portion of his humiliation and finally allowing him to drop the smelly piece of cloth.
“It’s okay,” Lancelot said, looking worried and kind, but mostly worried. “It’s okay. You don’t have to answer anything yet. Come on. Let’s get you to Gaius.”
Both Lancelot and Gwaine supported Merlin as they guided him to the horses, both arguing softly as to who should be the one to take him. In the end they had to flip a coin. Gwaine won, and after he mounted, Lancelot lifted Merlin and helped guide his legs over the saddle, while Gwaine made sure he was settled comfortably.
With Merlin no longer having to endure putting pressure on his ankle, the cloak a barrier between him and the cold, now should have been as good a time as any to give his voice a try and tell them what happened. Then the horse started moving, and it didn’t matter how slowly and carefully they went, even the slightest jolt incited more pain from his other injuries. He tried to speak, he really did, but his voice had stubbornly declined back to incoherent groans punctuated by an embarrassing whimper. His stomach also sloshed violently, but maintained its reverse rebellion and refused to purge itself (which was good, Merlin supposed, since the last thing he needed was to make a mess all over Gwaine’s horse. Not that Gwaine would have minded, but Merlin was feeling self-conscious enough as it was, thank you very much, and he really didn’t want Gwaine to have to clean up such a mess).
Time was a bit sporadic during the journey, discomfort and pains stretching hours into eternity, only for time to snap shut around them like when trap when Gwaine sighed with relief, “Camelot. About bloody time.”
The soft thud of hooves on dirt became the sharper clop of hooves on cobbles. Reaching the court yard took forever, but on finally arriving it seemed like no time had passed at all. Then Merlin was gently lifted from the saddle (although it certainly didn’t feel gentle from the way his body protested, and Merlin nearly passed out twice). He was cradled in Gwaine’s arms (the arm across his back digging without meaning to into his bruised spine and ribs), and watched as an overcast sky traded places with the pale-gray ceiling of the citadel’s interior.
Then it was the smoke-stained ceiling of Gaius’ chambers, the air heavy with the musky and biting scents of crushed herbs and boiling potions. And there was all that noise again, a frantic Gwaine alerting Gaius and a professional if tense Gaius ordering Gwaine to set Merlin on the cot, then ordering Lancelot to fetch the water bucket by the fireplace and a rag.
“What happened to him?” Gaius said snappishly.
“We don’t know,” Gwaine said as he set Merlin on the cot, on his side. “He hasn’t been able to talk.”
Gaius, bandages clutched in one hand, passed Gwaine a metal cup. “Here, give him this. Little sips only.”
Gwaine nodded, stiff with urgency. He moved back to Merlin and pressed the cup to Merlin’s lips, coaxing him gently to drink. After a few tentative sips wetting Merlin’s dry throat, his voice finally – finally – decided to cooperate.
“Bandits,” he blurted. “Three of them. One tall, another short with… a scar on his cheek. Th-they wanted money but… but I didn’t have any so they…” he swallowed thickly. “They took my – my clothes,” he barely managed to finish, his throat trying to close up.
He saw Gwaine and Lancelot standing toward the back out of the way, exchanging dark looks. Merlin’s view of them was then obscured by Gaius.
“Please inform the king,” Gaius said, which was often his polite way of saying please leave and get the bloody hell out of my way so that I may work in peace.
But Merlin’s mind, still in an unfit state to know what it wanted, was glad they were gone while wishing they would come back. They were knights, big and strong and armed, better at keeping the bad things away than Merlin was at the moment. But they were knights, big and strong, and Merlin didn’t want them to see him like this, didn’t want them to see his looks of pain and embarrassment and he their looks of pity and anger.
Then Gaius asked hesitantly as he uncovered Merlin’s upper half, “Merlin, did they… did they do anything else?” He cleared his throat. “Anything else, when they took your clothes?” And Merlin settled on being glad the knights were gone.
“No,” he said easily. But despite nothing else having happened, despite him home and in the safety and privacy of Gaius’ chambers, and despite still being relatively covered and having no reason to feel humiliated, the tears Merlin had fought with some success breached the battlements of his control, blurred his vision, and spilled down his face.
Gaius immediately set aside the healing ointment and rag he’d been holding and gathered Merlin to his chest, careful of his hurting arm. Merlin wrapped his good arm around Gaius’ neck and buried his face in his shoulder, letting the tears have their blasted victory. Gaius rubbed his back, careful of the bruised spine and ribs.
“I couldn’t do anything, Gaius,” he wept. “I couldn’t… and I thought… I thought…”
“Shh,” Gaius soothed. “You’re all right, now, Merlin. Everything will be all right.”
~oOo~
Arthur was not having a good day. Lord Coswal was giving him grief, again, about needing funds to repair the road even when Arthur knew good and well that the funds wouldn’t be going to the roads. They had yet to ever go to the roads, and while the roads on Lord Coswal’s land deteriorated, his keep was looking remarkably pristine and had three new wings. Rats had been spotted in citadel’s grain stores, and while the cats were making short work of them, several pounds of grain had to be thrown out when rat droppings were discovered in the sacks. Then there was his manservant still not back from his herb picking, as well as rumors of bandits (but the patrols were out, so the latter shouldn’t have been too much of an issue).
Arthur was on his way to Gaius’ to demand the whereabouts of the man’s flower-picking ward and why it took so long to gather blasted herbs. Merlin didn’t often take so long to hunt herbs when the days were so cold, the plants usually hard to find this time of year and Merlin with very little tolerance when it came to being out in the cold for too long. Arthur wasn’t worried (except that he was, but he didn’t know why so he mostly dismissed it), because he knew, also good and well, that Merlin often used the excuse of herb picking to get out of certain duties (except Merlin’s chore list had been absurdly short today, and not for lack of trying to extend it on Arthur’s part).
Arthur was almost to the corridor where Gaius’ chambers were located, and he frowned to see Gwaine and Lancelot coming out the door of the very stairwell Arthur was heading toward. Both men’s eyes widened on seeing Arthur, and they hurried to him.
“I trust there’s a good reason you’re back from patrols early?” Arthur said, sounding unconcerned (when he was very much concerned).
“Unfortunately, we have a very good reason, princess,” Gwaine said grimly.
“Merlin was attacked,” Lancelot said.
Alarm ripped through Arthur like lightning. “Attacked? How? Where? When? Is he all right?”
“Alive and mostly coherent,” Lancelot said. “But injured.”
“The bastards took his clothes,” Gwaine said with a familiar spark in his eyes, a spark that wanted badly to explode into anger and do some damage to the servant-beating bastards in question.
“Why?” Arthur asked carefully, dreading the answer.
“Apparently because he didn’t have enough money,” Gwaine said, and the spark blazed momentarily, his hands clenching into fists as if tightening around a neck, making the leather of his gloves creak.
“Did he give a description?” Arthur asked, neutral.
“Three of them. One tall, one small, small one with a scar on the cheek. So I’m guessing the third about medium height,” said Gwaine.
Arthur nodded once, clasping his hands calmly behind his back. “Good. I’m putting you two in charge of hunting these men down.”
Both men nodded back with a yes sire. They moved past Arthur looking quite eager to get the hunt underway.
“One more thing,” Arthur said, turning to them. Both men stopped and faced him, Gwaine going stiff with impatience. “I’m quite sure these men will be violent. So you will not be held responsible for whatever condition I find them in when you bring them to me. Are we understood?”
Gwaine’s lips curled in a very wicked but pleased smile. “Loud and clear.”
They continued on, the knights to their search and Arthur to Gaius’ chambers. But when Arthur reached Gaius’ door, he was stopped by the muffled sounds coming from the other side. Arthur inched the door open and was just able to hear Gaius speaking low words of comfort, and Merlin sobbing. Arthur peered inside. He saw Merlin being held by Gaius, and while Arthur couldn’t see Merlin’s face, he could see his back - the dirt, the blood, the massive foot-shaped bruise in between the shoulder blades, right over the knobby protrusion of his backbone.
It made Merlin look like an impossibly tall child, all skin and bone with very little muscle. It made Arthur think of Merlin out there alone, without clothes, terrified and bare, bloody and stumbling as he struggled to find his way home, always glancing over his shoulder and frightened out of his mind that the next time he looked it would be to see the ones who had done this to him.
Arthur’s hands clenched in a fist, much as Gwaine’s had done. He shut the door softly, then exited the stairwell while making a mental list of what he would need to join the hunt.
~oOo~
Gwaine was in a sour mood, but one would find themselves in less than stellar spirits if they’d been going to tavern after tavern for a week with strict orders not to get drunk. And he really, really wanted to get drunk right now.
But he wanted even more to make the roads a safer place, most especially for skinny, good natured herb-collecting manservants who had done nothing to deserve the lot in life fate had decided to hand him. Which couldn’t happen if Gwaine was too drunk to so much as see an inch in front of his nose.
On the plus side, at least it meant not having to be in uniform. Arthur didn’t want Merlin’s attackers to know they were being tracked, not until it was too late for said attackers.
After Gwaine’s third mug of water-downed cider (with nothing to show for his time spent in this cesspool of a tavern save for a rambling old man and a brow-beaten farmer hiding from his wife) it was time to call it quits. Gwaine tossed a coin onto the dirty counter of the bar, nodded his farewell to the ratty-looking barkeep, and headed to the door.
One tavern down, two more to go along this road.
It was as Gwaine was heading out that three men were heading in. One was tall, one medium, and the other short with a scar on his cheek.
The one with a scar on his cheek was wearing a neckerchief looking a bit too tight on his fat neck.
Gwaine froze. His heart pounded as if it could break from his chest and pummel the man wearing the scarf. But he forced a smile on his face, turned to the man and asked, “Love the scarf, there. I’ve got a mate looking for one just like it. Care to tell me where you got it?”
The man smiled showing black teeth, a few of them missing. “What, this ratty thing?” he said, tugging at it with filthy, sausage-like fingers. He snorted. “Let’s just say it was a parting gift from a scrawny little whelp of a boy. But I wouldn’t mind giving it up if your friend has a goodly amount of coin.”
Gwaine’s smile widened. “Oh, he’s got something much better, mate. Why don’t you wait here while I go fetch him?”
Fatty snorted. “You’d best be quick about it. I’ve gone too long sober as is, and I ain’t in the mood to prolong it further.”
Gwaine nodded. “I’ll just go and fetch him, shall I?” He walked out the door like a man with all the time in the world. Once out of sight, he walked like a child on Winter Solstice eager to open presents, to where Percival – who’d grown tired of the taverns smell – had gone to tend to the horses. Gwaine trotted up to him as he was rubbing his horse down and clapped him merrily on the shoulder.
“Percy, mate, you in the mood to hit someone? Three someone’s to be exact?”
Percival turned to him, and his lips curled in a predatory smile.
~oOo~
Arthur, dressed in his armor and mail with his sword at his hip, stepped up to the three men currently dangling upside down by their ankles from the sturdy branch of a tree. They were bound, gagged and, not surprising, without a scrap of clothing. Arthur crossed his arms as he regarded all three bruised and bare men wriggling like fish on a hook.
“Did they have the items in question?” Arthur asked.
Gwaine, grinning like a cat having gotten the cream, held up his satchel and patted it. “Every last bit.”
After another perusal of the three men, Arthur clapped his hands together and rubbed them eagerly. “Excellent! Well done, men. Let’s get those clothes back to Gwen. She’s been quite eager to get her hands on them.” He turned away from the three men as if forgetting about them. The men’s muffled cries of protest increased in volume. One of the cries sounded remarkably like, “You can’t just bloody well leave us here!”
In which Arthur would have responded, “I bloody well can,” but the men didn’t deserve even that much.
“Can Gwen really salvage them?” Percival asked.
Elyan snorted. “It’s Gwen. If it’s cloth and has stitches, she can salvage it.”
They all mounted, the moans of protest behind them becoming muffled screams. When they were out of hearing range of the three men, Arthur turned to Leon. “Are the stocks ready?”
“Ready and waiting, sire, along with a basket of rotten eggs and vegetables. Do you wish the men clothed when we lock them in?” Leon said.
“No,” Arthur said.
Leon nodded, “Very well.”
They reached the gates of the city not long after, where a squadron was waiting to cut the three men down and escort them (roughly) to the stocks (and later to the dungeons). Arthur stopped his horse, lingered by the gate for a bit, and then gave the order for the men to fetch the bandits. He would have waited longer, but there was a satchel of clothes to be delivered to a certain seamstress.
And, when they were ready, a certain manservant.
~oOo~
Merlin was quite sure he had been more miserable in his life than he was now, but at the moment he didn’t care. Bodily discomfort was one thing, but it was compounded by his need for an arm-sling and a crutch, making the going slow and stairs next to impossible to traverse without help. And because help was sometimes lacking for various reasons, it meant being confined to the cramped quarters of Gaius’ chambers and his own room.
But what annoyed Merlin was how it always turned out to be a good thing. He’d gotten a bit sick thanks to being out in the cold with nothing on. Nothing serious according to Gaius, but it made his lungs feel thick and heavy, and his body tired easily. The two times he managed to reach the end of the corridor outside the stairwell, he had to make a grand total of six stops to and from the chamber just to rest.
So as much as he wanted to get out and about – uncomfortable as it was – it wasn’t exactly possible.
Merlin mostly managed any steps by tucking the crutch under his arm and hopping down each step on one foot. Gaius, setting down a bowl of steaming porridge, looked up at the sound of Merlin’s one-footed descent and hurried over in case Merlin wobbled precariously like last time.
“Merlin, you really shouldn’t try to take the stairs by yourself,” he said reprovingly.
“Gaius, I’m fine. I’ve got the hang of it, I promise,” Merlin said with his customary smile of reassurance. He hopped from the last step, panting from the effort but triumphant, and maneuvered the crutch back under his arm. Gaius gave him a disapproving look, but Merlin knew that even Gaius had to admit that a person couldn’t be around twenty four-seven just to make certain Merlin left his room without incident. Merlin hobbled to the table where the bowl of warm porridge was waiting, and lowered himself carefully onto the stool.
If Merlin were to be honest, he didn’t want help going down the stairs. He didn’t care if it was foolhardy hopping on one foot with only one arm to catch himself if he fell. Because when someone did help him, looking at him with pity and concern while doing so, Merlin’s face would flush, his heart would race, and his mind would stumble back to Gwaine and Lancelot finding him in the woods, staggering and naked and half-beat to hell.
Which would then lead him to remembering the men who had put him in this state, holding him down as they ripped his clothes from him, kicking and punching him from struggling, then dropping him in the ravine.
But, then, it often didn’t take much for Merlin to remember. The cool air on his skin when he dressed or undressed. Seeing his bruised face reflecting back to him from the water in his wash basin. The pain medication wearing off, reminding him of his broken arm and twisted ankle. It was just that, for reasons he couldn’t explain, it was always worse whenever there was someone there while the memories assaulted him.
“Merlin? Are you not hungry?” Gaius asked, and Merlin realized he was stirring his porridge rather than eating it. He took a spoonful and shoved it into his mouth. It did nothing to lessen Gaius’ worry.
There was a commotion outside the door, a flurry of whispering voices and clattering feet that made Merlin go as still as a cornered deer, his heart hammering. He looked to Gaius who was more confused and annoyed than worried. Gaius got up, about to go to the door when it opened abruptly and Arthur stumbled through, a brown package wrapped in string in one hand. He looked stiff, uncomfortable, and when the door closed just as suddenly behind him, he glanced briefly back to glare at it.
“Sire,” Gaius greeted. “Do you need something? Have you been injured?”
Arthur cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as if readying to bolt.
“Actually,” he said with far too much pomposity even for Arthur. And when trying too hard to be regal, it was a good bet it was because he was about to do something monumentally uncomfortable.
“I just came to check on Merlin’s progress.” He gave Merlin a somewhat haughty look. “My armor can’t polish itself, you know, and I—“
An explosion of multiple coughs from the other side of the door (one of which sounded suspiciously like “stopbeinganassandgetonwithit”) – cut Arthur off. Arthur rolled his eyes, then approached the table and tossed the package onto its aged and nicked surface.
“And to, um…” he cleared his throat again. “To deliver that.”
Merlin, bewildered, took the package, undid the ties and pulled the layers of paper apart. His eyes widened to find clothes - shirt, trousers, even a frayed neckerchief.
“Did – did you get me new clothes?” Merlin asked, a smile tugging at his lips as he picked up the neckerchief.
Except there was nothing even remotely new about the cloth, with the little brown stain in the corner that Merlin knew so well, and a bump of stitching where a hole used to be.
Merlin knew this neckerchief.
“Actually,” Arthur said stiffly. “In point of fact. To be honest. We… er… found them, I suppose you could say.”
“More like repossessed,” said Gwaine’s voice through the door. “With extreme prejudice.”
“Gwen was able to mend and clean them,” Arthur added.
Merlin, neckerchief still in hand, picked up the shirt, then the trousers, gripping the clothes like he might the shoulder of a dear friend thought lost to him. He gaped up at Arthur, words of gratitude and wonder crowding his brain and clogging his throat until he couldn’t speak at all. His eyes stung and blurred, much to his embarrassment, but there was no stopping the tears that were going to fall whether he liked it or not.
“And you’ve no need to worry about the ones who took them,” Arthur went on. “They’ve been dealt with.”
“Also with extreme prejudice,” called Gwaine.
“Yes,” Arthur said. He nodded a few time, like a messenger having delivered his missive and quite proud of himself for it. He then turned on his heels and hurried to the door.
“Arthur!” Merlin was finally able to say.
Arthur, the door part-way open, stopped and glanced back at Merlin.
Merlin had to swallow a few times before he was able to speak, his throat was so tight.
“Thank you,” he said thickly. “You didn’t… I mean, it was just clothes but… thank you. Thank you so much.”
Then Gwaine’s head popped through the door, his smile big and eyes bright, “No problem, mate. No problem at all.” And Merlin could just see Lancelot, Elyan and Percival trying to peer over Gwaine and into the room. Until Arthur, with a roll of his eyes, pushed through the door, shoving them all back.
Merlin could hear their muffled voices on the other side, Arthur’s irritable, “If you were so bloody keen on seeing the look on his face then why didn’t you deliver the clothes with me?”
Followed by Gwaine’s, “He’s been jumpy. We didn’t want to crowd him. You did fine on your own, princess. Except for the bit about armor polishing…” until their voices faded as they moved away down the hall.
Merlin hugged the clothes to his chest with one arm, while Gaius moved behind him, placing a fatherly clasp on his shoulder. They didn’t say anything, there being nothing to say. Merlin’s throat was too closed up with gratitude, anyway, and his heart practically melting with warmth.
Maybe destiny wasn’t so bad after all.
The End