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bitsandbobsofwriting · 2 years

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5 times the Gang realise that something is deeply wrong with Merlin,

and +1 time Merlin actually approaches them, asking for help.

TW: PTSD, nightmares, scars, mentions of gore/injuries/blood, fear of fire disassociating.

Arthur is the first to notice. The two of them—The Prince and his manservant—are in his chambers when Merlin’s jerky movements just happen to catch his eye. Arthur has just about managed to admit to himself that he’s actually quite fond of Merlin, (not that he’d ever say it aloud, certainly not to Merlin’s face) hence why his eyes stay on the slightly younger man when he sees his log laden hands shaking.

It takes him a few moments to pinpoint why they’re shaking, at first he thinks it’s perhaps because Merlin is skinny and scrawny and weak, but he’s quick to discard that idea when he realises the servant is sitting as far from the hearth as he possibly can, whilst still begin able to build the fire. He figures that it’s normal, to be a little wary of being burnt, but Merlin’s held breath and white knuckles make the Prince think it’s perhaps a little more than that.

We all know Arthur is a little... emotionally constipated, so his first reaction to figuring out that Merlin is just a tad more terrified of fire than the average person, is to keep it to himself, and attempt to never think of it again. Which works out in the end, because Merlin gets less afraid over time. That, or he just gets better at hiding it.

In the end, although Arthur is the first to notice it, it’s Elyan, years later, that actually points it out.

They’re on some stupid hunt, Arthur claims it's so they can bring in some food and furs for winter, but everyone there—Arthur and Merlin of course, and the new King’s six most trusted knights—knows that it’s just because he’s bored and wants to take advantage of the last of the warm weather.

Merlin is, like always, setting up the camp whilst the knights de-armour, and Elyan is the first to finish up and settle down, a curious frown on his face as he watches Merlin concentrate. He notices the slight tension in the other man’s furrowed brows, and the way he gulps just before he has to put his hands anywhere near the flame; his words come out quietly, in an attempt to stop the others from hearing:

“You’re not all that fond of fire, are you Merlin?”

The servant looks up quickly, pulling his hands away from the burning wood on instinct. He goes to deny it, but the soft, non-judgemental smile on Elyan’s face has him pause, before he sighs and shakes his head:

“No. It... it actually kind of terrified me, even the smallest flame. I know it’s stupid, I just... I don’t know. Never really got over it I suppose.”

Elyan shakes his head and huffs out a quiet laugh, lowering himself to the ground and moving closer to the fire, waving Merlin backwards:

“It’s not stupid, in fact I think it’s very brave.-”

Merlin doesn’t look very happy at being waved away, but moves back without fuss as Elyan takes the logs from the pile and begins effortlessly building the fire. He raises an eyebrow at the knight’s words, tilting his head in disbelief:

“-I just mean, you deal with the hearth in Arthur’s chambers all day everyday, right? And you almost always sort the campfire whilst we’re out and about? And no doubt you help Gaius when he needs flames for his various potions and remedies?-”

At Merlin’s slow nod, Elyan looks up from the fire with a fond smile:

“-Exactly. Being terrified of something, no matter what it is, is neither here nor there, neither brave nor cowardly, it just... is. Dealing with said fear everyday for years, without complaint, that’s brave. You could easily have another servant do Arthur’s hearth, or ask one of us to do the fire, or leave Gaius to it, but you don’t.”

Merlin looks slightly doubtful, but Elyan lets him think on it as he moves back again, to be sat opposite him. It only takes the servant a few minutes to reply, and he does so quietly, just as the others begin to make their way over:

“I suppose I’d never thought of it like that, thank you.”

The next day, Elyan tries his best to keep in his smile when Merlin’s horse drops back to be alongside his own. The two of them bring up the rear of the pack, and it’s at least half a candle mark of comfortable, companionable silence before Merlin speaks:

“Thank you for not asking why.”

Elyan smiles and nods his head, responding just as quietly:

“It’s not my place to ask, though it is my place to help, when I can. You’re one of my dearest friends, Merlin, if you wanted to tell me you would, and I’m not pressed to find out if you're not in the mood to share. Besides,-”

He looks at Merlin sideways and lowers his voice even further as he continues:

“-there are plenty of reasons for Camelot citizens to fear fire, I tend not to push.”

Merlin whips his head around to look at the knight, a slight fearful frown on his face, but Elyan is quick to look away again. The servant gulps, and goes back to keeping his eyes on the horses a few metres in front of their own:

“Thank you. I-”

He sighs and clears his throat before continuing:

“-I guess I’ve always had nightmares about fire, ever since I was young. I don’t really remember I time when I didn’t have nightmares to be honest, but I got... I got pretty badly burnt, not long after coming to Camelot, and that didn’t... help matters.”

Elyan turns to him, the unspoken question hanging in the air and written in the crease of his brow. Merlin smiles at him tightly and pulls his neckerchief to the side, pulling his tunic down just a few inches so Elyan can see the very top of the scar left by Nimueh. The puckered pink skin, overlaid by white lightening, is easy to see in the morning sun, and Elyan tries his best to hide his shock. Merlin is quick to cover up again, turning forward with a deliberately blank face; Elyan follows his league, looking forward and speaking softly:

“I’m sorry. Just more proof of your bravery though, I suppose.”

Merlin hums quietly, signalling the end of the conversation as the two of them once again descend into a comfortable silence.

If the others notice Elyan’s new eagerness to deal with any and all fires on the groups’ little outings, no one says anything, and if they notice Merlin’s relief every time said knight pulls his flint out before the servant does, they still don’t say anything.

Arthur is reminded of his discovery, years prior, and doesn’t do his normal pratty thing of making Merlin do all the chores even when the others volunteer for them.

It’s Percival who notices Merlin’s... aversion, to touch, and his otherwise extreme jumpiness.

It’s a fairly new development, or at least it seemed like it. Really, Merlin had always been wary of touch, ever since he used to get pushed around by the older kids in Ealdor, but it had definitely gotten... worse, with his time in Camelot. The Warlock had learned very quickly that casual affection wasn’t the done thing in big cities, that physical touch was cold and formal, or swift and punishing. Any other touch he received was from some enemy or other, normally trying to kill him, or torture him. Not that the others knew that, of course.

He’s sat in a window seat in the library, the Spring sun glancing across his peaceful face and a book held softly in his lap. It’s one of his rare days off; he’d finished all of his chores in the morning, Arthur doesn’t have need of him as he’s running some sort of complicated drill in the training grounds with the squires, and for once, there is no ridiculous, life-threatening plot against The Kingdom that he has to deal with.

He’s calm, and warm, and comfortable, a precious rarity, which is what stops Percival from disturbing him, at first. The knight hadn’t realised how tense and exhausted Merlin always looks until now, now he knows what the servant looks like when he’s relaxed and unafraid. He’d thought he had caught glimpses of it before, when they all go out drinking together, or when they’re sat around the campfire, but there’s always a shadow of darkness in the servant’s eyes, a darkness which is only noticed, apparently, in it’s absence.

Eventually, the off-duty knight stops staring and approaches slowly, raising an eyebrow in amusement when Merlin simply turns a page, completely unaware that he had company. He stops besides him, slightly behind his eyesight, and places a hand on his shoulder.

Merlin’s reaction in instantaneous: he flies from his seat, book abandoned to the floor as he turns around, quicker than lightening, his eyes wide and wild and his hands held protectively in front of him. His chest moves deeply, rapidly, and it takes Percival stepping back in surprise and holding his hands out, speaking softly but hurriedly, for him to even begin to relax:

“Hey, hey, Merlin it’s just me!-”

The servant takes a deep gasp and bends over slightly, leaning his hands on his knees as he catches his breath. When Percival cautiously steps forward to place a gentle hand on his shoulder again, the servant flinches back, holding a hand out in front of him:

“-Merls, it’s just me.”

Merlin finally looks up, that wary shadow back in his eye, and Percival struggles to keep his frown from deepening when he’s given a very obviously fake smile:

“Sorry, sorry, you caught me off guard is all.”

Percival nods and steps back, noting with a slightly sick feeling in his stomach that Merlin begins to relax with the distance between them:

“No, it’s my fault, I should’ve called to you or something. Are you... are you sure you’re alright? It’s rare, that I see people react like that.”

Merlin’s smile falters, but only for a split second, less even, before he laughs and shakes his head, moving back to be perched on the edge of his seat:

“Ah, yeah, I’m fine, Percy, promise. I’m just... my back is kind of sensitive, and you surprised me, I was really into that book.”

Percival allows a small smile to grace his face as he nods and glances to the book, something boring looking in another language, before looking back to the now clearly tense servant:

“Your back?”

Merlin’s gaze shutters slightly, the darkness in his eyes deepening as if he hadn’t realised what he’d said. He’s quick to cover it up, and quick to lie as well:

“Yeah, well, you know me. I’m always the one that gets grabbed for ransom or blackmail when us lot are out and about, aren’t I?”

Percival forces a soft laugh loose from his mouth and nods:

“You’d be right in that, I suppose. I just came to fetch something for Leon on the way past, so I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy your afternoon off, Merlin.”

He lifts his hand, going to ruffle Merlin’s hair as a goodbye, but when he sees the slight clench in the servant’s jaw (he wonders if he’s always done that, whenever Percival goes to touch him), he changes course, scratching the back of his ear absent-mindedly as he nods a goodbye and turns to leave.

Somehow, the knight doesn’t think Merlin will be able to relax anymore, and though part of him feels guilty about that, he’s also grateful that he’d discovered Merlin’s little... quirk, so that he can better help him.

From then on, Percival greets everyone who walks into the room, no matter the awkwardness it may cause. It takes the others a little while to catch on, but when they notice the protective way the knight stands in front of Merlin—in the face of newcomers—and the relieved look Merlin gets when Percival’s greetings act as a warning, it doesn’t take them long to join in.

It takes them even longer however to notice the way Percival always lets Merlin control how much the servant gets touched by the larger knight. A held out arm is invitation for a hug or a wrestle, though it never reaches further than invitation, and never holds on longer than Merlin is willing to accept.

Arthur remembers all those times Merlin offered or asked for a hug, and he wonders when things changed.

It’s pitch black out and clouded over, so not even the stars can light the camp; only the orange glow provided by the low burning embers help Sirs Leon and Mordred, the second pair to take watch, see through the night.

The world is mostly still, only the crackling of the leftover wood in the firepit and the occasional hooting owl breaks the silence. That is, until the keen ears of the two knights pick up on quiet whimpering from a few metres away. Leon immediately sits up straight and puts a hand to the hilt of his sword, but the moment Mordred figures out which direction the sound is coming from, he holds a defensive hand out and stands, careful not to make too much noise.

He walks slowly over to Merlin, who’s shuffling in his sleep and muttering under his breath, brow furrowed and hands clenched tightly around his blanket; the youngest knight kneels at his side and quietly hushes Leon when he follows curiously:

“He’s probably having a dream, Mordred, we should leave him be. He’ll settle shortly, I’m sure.”

Mordred shakes his head and hovers a hand over the servant’s shoulder:

“No, it’s a nightmare, look at his face. We should... we should wake him up.”

Leon frowns and puts his hand on Mordred’s back:

“You know he’s not fond of being touched, and he never gets enough sleep, we should-”

Mordred interrupts him, though still keeps his words quiet when he turns to face the older man:

“Exactly. He doesn’t get enough sleep because he’s always getting nightmares. He may not be fond of the surprise, but we should still wake him before it gets worse and wakes the others.”

Leon sighs but looks doubtful, and though Mordred wants to damn him and do what he knows is right, he waits for the older’s go ahead before shaking the servant awake. It’s Merlin’s next whimper, louder than the others, followed by a tearful “No... no... Freya... please...”, that has the blonde nodding his agreement.

Mordred places a soft hand on his shoulder, but otherwise leans his body away, shaking him gently. It doesn’t seem to work, only aggravating Merlin and his dreaming mind more; Mordred chances a quick glance upwards to make sure that no one else has woken and that Leon is still behind him, before looking back down sending a quick shock of magic down his arm into Merlin’s body.

That seems to do the trick, and with a great heave of breath, Merlin jolts upright, scrambling backwards with wide eyes when he feels Mordred’s hand on his shoulder, and sees Leon stood over him. Leon takes a stumbled step back before freezing in shock, not having expected his friend to react in such a manner at being woken, not even from a nightmare. Mordred just holds his hands out in front of his and hushes Merlin calmly, whispering softly in an attempt to help him focus:

“Shhh, Merlin, it’s ok. It was just a nightmare, you’re awake now, this is real, this, not whatever you were dreaming about. You’re here with me, it was just a nightmare.”

Merlin holds in a lungful of cold night air for a moment before dropping his head into his hands, attempting to catch his breath. He runs his hands backwards through his hair, roughly, before looking up with red rimmed eyes to the younger knight:

“Arthur?”

Mordred nods and quietly answers, much to Leon’s confusion, but doesn’t lower his hands or move any closer:

“Alive, sleeping.”

Merlin doesn’t look away, doesn’t even blink:

“Lancelot?”

Mordred nods again, and slowly moves to be sat cross legged, instead of crouching uncomfortably:

“The same, alive and sleeping. As are Gwaine and Elyan. Morgana is back home, under armed guard, perfectly safe.”

Merlin nods and sighs, looking to his shaking hands, resting in his lap. His next question is quieter than a whisper, and Leon has to strain to hear it:

“Freya?”

Mordred gulps, shaking his head as he softly replies:

“I’m sorry, Merlin. Freya is gone, you know that. This is real.”

It takes a while for the servant to respond, Leon might’ve thought he’d fallen asleep sitting up, but after a few minutes of his frozen recovery, Merlin finally looks up, a weak smile on his face:

“Thank you-”

He stands on shaky legs, and though Mordred follows him and offers an arm out to steady him, he doesn’t take it, glancing around the camp to make sure no one else is awake before wandering past the the two knights, to where they had been seated earlier. He’s quick to sit, almost collapse, really, with his back against a tree, and the other two hesitatingly walk over to him, settling either side, though they’re careful to leave space:

“How long have the two of you been on watch? You want me to take over? I’m not getting back to sleep any time soon.”

Leon answers, having broken himself from his stupor, with a concerned frown:

“No, we... it’s only been an hour or so, we’ll stay up with you. Merlin are you... ok?”

Merlin looks up to him with a tired, but resigned smile, and nods slightly, bumping shoulders with the other man but quickly pulling away again:

“Yeah, fine. I get nightmares a lot, though I don’t normally move around or make too much noise, sorry for disturbing you.”

Leon is quick to shake his head, huffing out a displeased breath:

“No it’s fine, no need to apologise, I’m glad we could wake you. Is there... do you want to talk about it?”

Merlin sighs, but keeps facing forward as he quietly answers, hyper aware of both Mordred and Leon’s gazes on him:

“Not really. But talking about things is meant to help, right?-”

He lets out a low, self-deprecating laugh and looks to his lap before continuing, even quieter than before:

“Her name was Freya, and I was going to marry her; I dream about her sometimes. All the time really, and some dreams are... nicer, than others. It’s weird to think about, I knew her so long ago, and we had our whole lives ahead of us... if she’d survived, if we’d run away and gotten married and built our little home like we’d wanted... we’d probably have had children by now. It’s just... odd to think about. I try not to, really.”

Mordred moves his gaze ahead, already knowing the story, but Leon fixes a horrified face on the side of Merlin’s head:

“I... had no idea. Was this... before Camelot?”

Merlin shakes his head, finally looking up to meet the other man’s gaze with a sad smile:

“No, a year or two after I came here. She was... sick, nothing I could do. I stopped being in love with her a long time ago, but never really stopped grieving, I guess.”

The younger knight’s mournful gaze still stays forward, but Leon’s eyes, now slightly teary, stay fixed on Merlin’s:

“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine...”

Merlin lets out another huff of air, though the smile on his face is most certainly not happy:

“Yeah, it really is something else, to grieve for something, a life, a marriage, a family, that you never had. It just... catches up to me, some nights.”

Leon nods and looks away, muttering a quiet “I may not understand the... specifics, but I do understand that.”, and Merlin nods, brushing shoulders with the older knight again but not pulling away this time.

Mordred has been asleep for a while by the time dawn breaks, but Leon and Merlin had stayed awake through the night; sometimes conversing quietly, and sometimes going hours without muttering a single word between them. As the forest wakes around them, and the light begins peaking through the trees, casting halos around their still sleeping friends, Merlin softly presses his forehead to Leon’s shoulder:

“Thank you for staying awake with me. And not pushing.”

Leon responds with a gentle smile that the servant can’t see, and briefly rests his head atop Merlin’s:

“Any time. You know where my chambers are.”

The next time Merlin has a nightmare whilst the gang are out and about, it’s Leon and Elyan that are awake. Leon knows to stay quiet, to wake Merlin from as far away as possible and as quickly as possible. He knows the answer to all the questions he asks (bar “Daegel?” “I... I’m sorry, Merlin, I don’t know who that is.” “...It’s ok. He’s... dead, I think.”), and he sends a subtle shake of the head to Elyan when the other knight goes to question why Merlin won’t go back to sleep.

A few weeks later, it’s Elyan and Arthur. Elyan knows how to wake him, knows the answer to all the questions (bar “Will?” “Is... Lance mentioned a friend from Ealdor once, is that him?” “Yeah.” “I’m sorry, Merlin, I think he’s gone.”), and mutters to The King that Merlin likes to stay awake and watch the sunrise when he’s had a nightmare.

A few months later... they all know the drill. I’m not sure if Merlin notices, maybe he does, maybe he feels guilty, or oddly disconnected (what with all his friends seeing his two most prominent personalities, his fake happy, and his utter misery, but not knowing anything of what connects them). Or maybe he’s just grateful for the soft company and a shoulder to rest his weary head when he’s not quite ready to close his eyes again.

It’s a few months after the last people find out about how to deal with Merlin’s nightmares (Gwen and Morgana, when they went on a stargazing camping trip with Merlin, Lancelot, and Elyan) that Arthur and Gwaine accidentally stumble upon a more... physical, proof of Merlin’s trauma.

By now, everyone has caught on to the fact that Merlin is far more than he seems, has been through far more than anyone knows. It’s almost a weekly occurrence for someone to have to talk Arthur out of just asking him to his face; they all know how skittish the servant is, though he tries to pretend he isn’t. He struggles with loud noises, unexpected touch—any touch, really—nightmares, flames. Elyan suspects that it’s something to do with whatever the hell caused that burn mark on his chest, at least partially, despite the fact that the issue evidently continued to get severely worse, even years after the initial injury happened.

He’s not too far off, I suppose.

The three of them, The King, the servant and the... tag-a-long, are settling down after an uneventful day hunting. Or trying to hunt anyway. Merlin had told Arthur it was too early, that the ground hadn’t thawed and the hunting territories wouldn’t have replenished after winter yet, but Arthur, like usual, wasn’t having it, preferring to do what he likes and damn logic. They’d caught a sickly rabbit or two, enough to feed them for the night, but definitely not anything impressive to bring back for the castle kitchens. Which means Arthur is in a huff, Gwaine is only making it worse by antagonising him, and Merlin wants nothing more than half an hour of peace and quiet, away from their bickering.

He’d fallen in quite a few muddy patches (secretly in an effort to scare away the previously mentioned sick rabbits, not that the other two need to know that) and despite the frigidness of the water, Merlin was eager for any excuse to get away and soothe his headache, so he picks up the dirty bowls, a spare tunic, and a couple of rags. He stands suddenly, a scowl on his face as he looks to The King:

“One, I told you this was stupid,-”

He looks to Gwaine:

“-Two, you are both arrogant, stupid, pricks,-”

He looks back to Arthur, noticing but not really caring about the look of mildly amused shock on either of their faces:

“-and three, I’m going to wash the bowls, and myself. Stay put, if either of you get injured, kidnapped, or killed before I come back, I shall be mightily pissed off.”

With that, Merlin does an about turn and stalks into the forest without looking back. Gwaine quickly snorts, unable to hold his laughter in, but Arthur just rolls his eyes and gets back to huffily tidying their little camp, ready for an early start the next day, muttering to himself as he goes:

“Stupid, bloody, argumentative, inattentive, stupid-”

Gwaine laughs louder:

“You’ve said that one already, Princess. You did miss out sexy as he-”

“Shut up, Gwaine.”

When almost an hour passes and Merlin still hasn’t come back, Arthur and Gwaine go from annoyed and amused respectively, to worried. Only a very short conversation is needed between the two of them before they decide to grab their swords, just in case, and follow Merlin’s tracks towards the river. Any number of things could have happened: Merlin could’ve gotten lost in the dark, he could’ve fallen into the freezing river, he could be caught in a trap or taken by bandits, he could’ve broken his ankle (or neck) tripping over a root. Any number of things.

Instead, they find him sat by the river’s edge, quietly whistling to himself with his back to them as he scrubs his dirty tunic in the cold water. He’s shivering, but other than that he doesn’t seem too bothered by the freezing weather, and that is not what has the two knights stop in their tracks and stare.

Merlin’s back is criss-crossed with unsightly scars, his flesh mangled beyond any normality; the skin is so malformed and blistered and sunken and raised it looks painful for the servant to even move. There are lash marks, yes, and though it is a shock to the both of them to see those kinds of marks on Merlin, they are not shocking for the day and age; being whipped is a staple punishment for all sorts of things in all sorts of places. It’s the other scars, the burns, the arrow punctures, the slices—too deep and pink and neat to be from a whip, they more resembled the slash of a sharpened blade—the rope burns zig-zagging over his upper arms, that catch the two off guard.

They’ve never seen anything like it, not in the bandits and other poor sods Gwaine had been stuck in that cage with, nor the oldest and most hardened knights Arthur had had the pleasure of fighting alongside.

Arthur lets out a deep breath, though thankfully the fast rushing river—almost overflowing from the start of the snowmelt—drowns him out, and Gwaine is quick to grab the other’s sword before it falls to the ground. The older knight can sense Arthur’s outrage, at being kept in the dark about this, but also at the undeniable fact that Merlin had been hurt over and over to various degrees of severity, right under his nose, and no one had known.

The King goes to take a step forward, but Gwaine, the second to regain his ability to move but the first to regain his senses, quickly steps in front of him, furiously whispering:

“No, Arthur no. You know how he is, he came out here for some peace and privacy, we are not going to take that from him. Back to the camp, now.-”

Arthur huffs, trying to move past him to peek at his servant’s injuries once more, but Gwaine keeps a firm hold on his shoulder, and begins to whisper again, his tone a lot softer, sympathetic, pitying:

“-Come on, Arthur. You know this isn’t right, he didn’t mean for us to see this. We should leave him be.”

The King huffs again, clearly annoyed and worried and guilty, but he knows Gwaine is speaking the truth, and sighs as he sags. He nods his head, murmuring a barely audible:

“Fine, we’re talking about this properly back at camp though, you and I.”

Gwaine nods, glancing behind him to see Merlin still entirely oblivious, slipping on his clean tunic before he gets back to scrubbing the muddy one; the knight nods at Arthur to taken his sword back and lead the way back to camp. The short journey is made in silence, a silence that stretches just a little longer when they both collapse on opposite sides of the fire, staring into the flames with matching expressions of subdued shock and horror.

Eventually, Arthur speaks, his voice soft and just slightly choked as he refuses to look up at the other knight:

“I’m not sure how much longer I can pretend nothing is wrong. Merlin is... he’s afraid of fire, more than the average man. He now can’t bare to be touched when it’s not on his terms, despite how much like a starved for affection puppy he used to bound about like when he first came to Camelot. He gets horrific nightmares about dead people I’ve never heard of, never met, never even had mentioned to me before. And now he has those... marks, on him.”

Gwaine nods, almost absentmindedly, but Arthur knows he’s paying attention from the furrow in his brows and the tightness with which the knight’s hands fiddle with each other:

“Hmm. I want to say it’s none of our business, but Merlin is... he’s my best friend. And yours, and Lancelot’s, and Gwen’s, and Morgana’s, and Mordred’s. He’s very important to a lot of people, and somehow, none of us really know him in return.”

Arthur shakes his head minutely:

“Lancelot knows, at least he knows something. He’s never as surprised as we all are, when Merlin jumps at a noise or shies away from touch; he’s just... sad. Mordred, Morgana, and Gaius too, to a certain extent.”

Gwaine notices Arthur’s lack of denial that Merlin is his best friend, and if he weren’t so focused on other things, the knight would be rubbing it in The King’s face and promising to never let him forget that he’d finally admitted it. As it is, he just nods slowly, agreeing with a sentiment he’d never quite felt comfortable thinking himself. He hums again, but then shakes his head:

“Hmm. I... yeah. I know what you mean, but they certainly don’t know... all of it. Bits and pieces maybe. Though perhaps that’s worse, to know the first line of a story and to see the havoc in the aftermath, but to, like everyone else, have no clue of the story’s actual substance. But we can’t push, Arthur, no matter how much we want to. It isn’t our place-”

Arthur interrupts him, his face angry and his voice, though still quiet, even more so:

“Like hell it isn’t our place. We’re his friends, Sir Gwaine. Before, with the nightmares and the fire and the touch, I’d convinced myself it was something in his past—from before Camelot—that we couldn’t possibly hope to help him with except by leaving him be, but this... Gwaine, some of those scars hadn’t fully healed, they were fresh. That arrow wound was still scabbed, there were bandages poking out above the hem of his trousers. This is... this is no longer a traumatic past, this is current, this is happening now, under our noses. Are you really telling me you’re not even an ounce curious?! This is-”

Gwaine cuts him off in return, hushing him loudly before launching into his own angry whispers:

“I’m not curious, Arthur, I’m freaking out. I want to know just as much as you, but do you really think cornering him like some wounded animal and demanding answers that, after ten years of friendship he still hasn’t given up willingly, is the right course of action?? You know what he’s like, he’s skittish, if we force him, he’ll run. I finally have a home, here, because of Merlin, I’m sure as hell not going to drive him away out of my own selfish desire to be trusted by him as much as he is trusted by me. It isn’t our place, we can not push. Ask the others, they’ll all agree with me.”

Arthur is desperate to argue, to push his point, to march back to Merlin and demand answers, but he knows the knight is right, for once. He lets out a low growl from the back of his throat, but quickly slumps back against the tree trunk behind him, eyes turning sad:

“I know, I know. You’re right. I just... I don’t know why he won’t trust us. Me, I... I understand, I’m The King, he’s a servant, he can’t afford to see me as a friend, no matter how much I...- But someone. You, Lance, Gaius, anyone. He can’t keep doing this alone. One day... one day Merlin is going to sneak off to deal with whatever it is he’d been dealing with, and he’s not going to come back, and none of us will have any idea where he is or what’s happened to him. He deserves his privacy, but not if it causes his... his needless death.”

Gwaine smirks slightly, and though the undercurrent of sadness is still there, Arthur just scowls at the surface expression, waiting for his no doubt annoying, obnoxious response:

“You underestimate Merlin’s devotion to you. He... I think trust works differently in Merlin’s world; perhaps he doesn’t trust anyone with the truth of what’s actually going on in his life, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t absolutely adore you. Perhaps you think he doesn’t see you as a friend because you don’t allow yourself to see him as your friend.-”

Arthur’s face softens the more Gwaine speaks, and though he blushes slightly at mention of Merlin’s adoration, he also smiles. That is until...:

“-and that, My Lord, would be the first step to getting him in your bed, and eventually giving him a crown.”

The King quickly looks up, the pink brushing his cheeks turning to a deep shade of red as he splutters, his eyes wide:

“That is... that’s not... I don’t......- Fuck Off.”

Gwaine snorts and covers his mouth with his hand as a rustle in the bushes draws their attention. They both immediately put a hand to their swords, but when Merlin stumbles into the clearing, his wet, but now thankfully clean tunic in one hand, and the clean bowls and rags in the other. He seems a little calmer, less annoyed than he was when he left, and he raises a questioning eyebrow at Gwaine’s grin and Arthur’s flush:

“Do I even want to know?”

Arthur clenches his jaw and looks away, blush deepening, but Gwaine clears his throat and loudly boasts:

“Well, me and Princess here were just discussing how head over he-”

Arthur retaliates, and shuts the knight up, by throwing the first thing his hand lands on directly at his face. Said thing happens to be a rather hefty tree branch, and Gwaine is knocked off his perched seat with an “oof” as Arthur glowers:

“I swear to the Gods, Gwaine, shut the fuck up.”

Merlin just snorts and shakes his head, turning to hang his wet tunic up and put everything else away as he mutters:

“I’ll take that as a no, then.”

I doubt Merlin notices Arthur’s sudden respect of his personal privacy. The King starts knocking, before entering his little room at the back of the Physician’s chambers, never demands that the servant swim with the knights when it gets warm and they’re away from the city, always allows Merlin to treat his own wounds, if at all possible.

The others probably don’t catch on either, it’s so subtle, not until Gwaine has a quiet word with them. Merlin isn’t present, but Arthur is, and he catches odd words, “... privacy.... touching his back.... scars.... we can’t... whip marks, burns, stabs wounds, everything... let him.... important.”

Arthur sneaks a peek at their horrified faces, and gives them all a terse nod when they look back to him, before excusing himself from the room. He knows his knights trust him, and that he trusts them, but he is King, there will always be a regrettable gap. Arthur is determined to give them space to discuss things they may not necessarily be comfortable discussing in front of him. Such as whatever it is that Merlin keeps getting himself into.

They’re all together when it happens, which Arthur can be grateful for, he supposes. If Gaius hadn’t been there, he’s not sure anyone else, bar Lancelot of course, would have any idea of what to do.

They’ve eaten their shared meal, The King, Lady Morgana, Gaius, Guinevere, Merlin, and the six knights, that is, and none of them have any commitments the next morning, so they’ve settled in for a drink or two.

No one really knows how much time has passed before anyone notices, it could have been five minutes, it could have been thirty, but it’s Leon who frowns as he looks over to Merlin finally. The servant is sagged in his chair—that has been pushed back from the table slightly—his blank eyes staring, seemingly unseeingly, ahead. His hands twitch slightly in his lap and his breathing, though slow, seems particularly deep considering how still he is. The First Knight stops paying attention to the various conversations flowing around the table, interrupting them all to firmly call Merlin’s name:

“Merlin? You alright over there?”

Everyone looks to the servant, frowning in concern when he doesn’t react. Gwen, sat next to him, reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder, to shake him from whatever daydream seems to have captured his mind, but Gaius stops her with sharp words as he stands and makes his quick way to the younger physician’s side:

“No! Don’t touch him, please.”

Arthur stands too, though doesn’t move around the table, unhappy, but resigned to the fact that Gaius, when in physician mode, doesn’t care that he’s The King, and would have him locked from the room if he got in the way:

“Gaius? What’s wrong with him?”

Gaius hums quietly as he kneels at Merlin’s side, groaning as he drops to the floor but settling quickly so he can wave a slow hand in front of the servant’s eyes and quietly mutter his name. Merlin still doesn’t react, and it’s Lancelot, on the servant’s other side, that quietly asks:

“Gaius?”

The physician looks up, and the two of them share a meaningful look that almost has Arthur, and everyone else, kicking off, but he manages to hold in most of his anger as he grinds out his name again, this time a demand instead of a question:

“Gaius.”

The Physician looks over to The King with a small scowl and a gentle huff of air from his lips:

“He’ll be fine, My Lord, just a hopefully short disassociation episode, nothing he hasn’t suffered from before.-”

Arthur’s frown deepens, but before he can say anything, Gaius pulls himself to stand and stares despondently down at his ward as he mutters quietly, to himself:

“-Though what in the Gods’ names triggered it here remains a mystery. Perhaps... perhaps the noise.”

Arthur huffs, angry, as Gaius gestures for Lancelot to pull Merlin up to his feet. The servant seems able to hold his own weight, and even walk after a gentle push in the right direction, but his eyes are still glossed over and his hands remain twitchy and uncoordinated as he is guided across the room:

“What the hell does that mean? Why would he-? Why would Merlin-?”

Arthur’s questions, slowly growing in anger and worried bewilderment alike, are interrupted as Lancelot, now with his arm bracketed around Merlin’s waist, curses quietly, before twisting his head round to look at Gaius:

“Time to go. Now, I think.”

Gaius nods and hurries over to open the door for the two of them, muttering a quiet “Up to my chambers, on a pallet. Keep it dark and quiet, no flames at all.”, which is responded to by Lancelot’s even quieter “I know the drill, see you there.” before he leaves the room, a practiced movement to the way he maneuverers Merlin through the narrow doorway. The Physician is quick to look back to everyone else, gaze lingering very briefly on Mordred and Morgana, who look an odd mix of heartbroken and furious at having been in the dark about this, before his gaze lands more solidly on The King:

“I’m not blind to see that all of you have figured out a little of Merlin’s... suffering, so I shall not insult you by telling you nothing is wrong. In return, I ask that none of you insult me by demanding I give up not only a patient’s, but my ward’s, privacy, and personal medical information. Especially given his current inability to consent.”

He waits only a moment for Gwen, ever the sensible and patient one, to step forwards, putting a calming hand on The King’s shoulder as she nods her assent to the Physician, before he leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

Not much conversation is had between everyone for the remainder of the night, a whole lot of what ifs and I don’t understands and does anyone know anything of Merlin’s conditions? Many many questions that are a struggle to ask, and are even more of a struggle to answer.

It’s only when the quieter midnight bell rings that Leon and Morgana share a look, standing up and waving everyone to the door, the First Knight’s quiet demand reminding everyone of the world outside:

“Come. To bed, the lot of you, there will be no helping Merlin tonight, and no helping him tomorrow if we’re all exhausted.”

The all look like they want to argue, but Morgana’s raised eyebrow and Leon’s well practised forceful glare has them all quickly give in, even Arthur and Gwaine. Though Morgana still follows her brother back to his room, determined to see him in bed and not about to sneak off to the Physician’s chambers before she retires herself:

“Arthur,-”

The King jumps and spins in place, and that tells Morgana all she needs to know; for Arthur to be so distracted he doesn’t notice someone following him into his room, someone who wasn’t even trying to be sneaky, he must be very deep in thought indeed. She rolls her eyes softly, fondly, deciding she can worry herself later, once she’s screwed her brother’s head on right again:

“-I’m sure he’ll be fine, it’s Merlin, so stop panicking and go to sleep.”

Arthur huffs and turns in a circle, his hands on his hips; Morgana has a feeling that if they weren’t clenched so tightly in his tunic, they’d be waving about manically:

“How can I possibly not panic? This is...this is just...- First the flames and the touch, and then the nightmares: the dead people and the grief and the preferring exhaustion to sleep. And then the scars... Morgana you should’ve seen them. And now he’s... what? Disassociating?? I don’t even... I’ve only ever seen that in people who’ve been tortured or were lone survivors of tragedies, or worse.-”

He turns to her with a wild look in his eyes, and Morgana finds that just a small part of her current grief and worry is dedicated to not only Merlin, but Arthur too:

“-I don’t understand. I’ve given him this long to come clean, to let me- to let us look after him, and it just seems to be getting worse.-”

His eyes suddenly fill with tears, and Morgana walks briskly forward, pulling him into a hug that he doesn’t bother trying to resist. His arms hang loosely at his sides as she strokes his back soothingly, but he presses his cheek into her shoulder, turning his head so he can stare out of the window, whispering:

“-I just don’t... Morgana it’s Merlin.”

She sighs, continuing her soft ministrations, grateful to feel him slowly relax in her hold, and knowing that his teariness was, at least in part, down to the alcohol consumed and slowly catching up to him:

“I know, I know. But that’s exactly the point I’m making, it’s Merlin. He’ll come to us when he’s ready, Arthur, and I know it’s difficult to watch him suffer, but he knows we care for him, and he knows we’ll all be here when he needs us. We just need to be patient with him. Do you want me to stay in the antechamber tonight?”

Morgana hasn’t stayed in the antechamber of Arthur’s rooms since they were much much younger, and though Arthur is sorely tempted to accept, he knows it won’t be the same as it was all those years ago: giggled ghost stories under blankets and sneaking Morgana back to her room before the nannies noticed. He pulls away from the embrace, stepping back and quickly wiping his face clean with an uncoordinated hand as he clears his throat:

“No, no it’s fine. We should both get some sleep. I’ll...-”

He looks briefly over the room, and Morgana knows he’s considering having to go through his night-time routine without Merlin’s soft “good night, Arthur. I’ll see you in the morning” to send him off to sleep.

“-I’ll see you in the morning.”

It’s clearly the closest to a dismissal she’ll get, so Morgana reaches out to squeeze his hand once more before quietly leaving the room, shutting the door behind her with a soft click. The silence is clichéd in it’s deafening volume, and Arthur stares around the room for a few moments more, noticing with every second the Merlin-shaped holes in every part of the room; the unmade bed, tomorrow’s clothes not set on the table, the cold and barren fireplace, the unorganised paperwork. He sighs, rubbing a tired hand down his face once more before sloppily preparing himself for bed, collapsing under the covers, and falling into a fitful sleep.

+1)

The King’s sleep lasts barely an hour before he’s awake again, too unnerved by his nightmares of a forever pale and unresponsive Merlin to even consider trying to get back to sleep again.

He paces, and mutters to himself, briefly considering trying to distract himself with paperwork before he realises his mind is far too addled to be able to write anything down that isn’t nonsensical. And nonsensical paperwork would just stress Merlin out, and that thought process just brings Arthur right round into panicking about his manservant again.

In the end, he holds himself off until dawn breaks before he makes his bed, redresses, and makes his slow way to the Physician’s chambers. The guards nod at him, clearly concerned by his messy hair and the bruises under his eyes, but he simply nods back and keeps walking; they know when to mind their business, and keep what they saw to themselves.

Apparently Sir Leon, despite being the one to insist everyone go to sleep the previous evening, had a similar night to The King, and Arthur finds him loitering nervously in the corridor, obviously trying to decide whether it’s too early to knock yet:

“Leon, did you actually go back to your room or have you been here all night?”

The knight looks up with a start, but quickly relaxes and shakes his head:

“No, I’ve only been here half a candle mark or so, possibly less. That’s not to say I slept much though, I’m waiting until the sun is at at least visible before I go in.”

Arthur nods in agreement at Leon’s first two statements, but raises an eyebrow at the third:

“Dawn broke a short while ago,-”

He gestures a hand to the door with a tired smile:

“-shall we?”

Leon looks surprised, and then doubtful, taking a deep breath and looking between Arthur and the door nervously:

“Are you sure? It’s still early, Sire, I’d hate to intrude or wake them.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and huffs out a soft laugh, pushing the door open himself as quietly as he can as he whispers:

“If they’re spark out then we’ll come back in a couple of hours, Gaius is normally up before dawn anyway.”

Before Arthur can push the door all the way open, they hear a pointed cough from inside, and Gaius’ voice responding in a whisper:

“Gaius is in fact normally up before dawn. Come in gentlemen, I was wondering how long you’d be skulking out in the corridor.”

Arthur freezes momentarily and bites his lip as he looks at an equally embarrassed Leon, before fully opening the door and stepping into the room. Gaius and Merlin sit at the table, with Lancelot still seemingly asleep, deep asleep, in a chair in the corner of the room. The hearth is lit, though there is no roaring fire, just a smaller, gentler flame, working in tandem with the various sweet smelling candles and the slowly rising sun to cast the room in an orange glow.

Merlin, though tired, looks otherwise ok, and frowns in confusion at the two knights as they stare at him, frozen:

“What are you two doing up so early, you don’t have anything on until noon. Is everything ok?”

Leon lets out a held breath as his eyes widen even further, echoing Merlin’s question incredulously as Arthur just stands in place, hands clenched at his sides:

“Is everything ok?? Are you kid-”

Leon breaks himself off and looks to Gaius for help:

“-...does he not remember?”

Merlin rolls his eyes and stands, stepping in between Leon and Gaius with an annoyed expression on his face:

“He is right here. Yes, I remember, and yes, I’m fine. It happens sometimes, I have a... thing, that sometimes... yeah. I’m fine. Go back to bed, you both look exhausted; I’ll get the council meeting postponed for a couple of hours so you can sleep past noon.”

He goes to move past them, evidently rattled by the need to come up with a quick explanation and an ever quicker escape plan, but it’s then that Arthur finally snaps out of his stupor, stepping in front of the door and blocking his exit, crossing his arms and clenching his jaw before speaking:

“Sit down, Merlin.”

There’s a flash of anger, of fury, in the servant’s eyes but it’s gone as quickly as it had arrived, and Merlin heaves a quiet sigh before traipsing back to his seat, muttering despondently:

“At least keep your scolding down, Sire, Lance is still asleep.”

Arthur recoils at the momentary rage, but quickly sags at the words, running a hand through his knotted hair and following Merlin to the table, settling at the head and pulling Leon down next to him, to be by Gaius:

“I’m not... Merlin I’m not going to scold you, I’m not angry at you, we’re just... worried. I... you...-”

He loses the words as Merlin stares at him with piercing blue, disbelieving eyes, and Leon puts a hand on The King’s shoulder as he continues in his stead:

“You’re terrified of fire: not such a strange fear, even the depth to which your fear runs, but you also can’t sand to be touched anymore, have horrendous nightmares and then spend the rest of the darkness grieving for people we’ve never even heard of. You’re...-”

He almost mentions the scars, but evidently decides not to, aware that Merlin had no idea anyone knew about them; he doesn’t want to overwhelm him too much in one go:

“-and now... this? We care for you Merlin, and we want you to be ok and you’re clearly not. We’re not... we don’t want to force an explanation out of you, not ever, but we’re here, whenever you’re ready.”

Leon’s words, the knights realise, only seem to make Merlin more and more nervous, afraid even, and he finishes on an even quieter note than when he had started. Merlin’s eyes turn to steel, though his smile seems innocent enough as he softly replies, and the two of them, under the scrutinizing gaze of Gaius, wonder just when Merlin had gotten so good at pretending everything was ok:

“I’m fine, really, I-”

Arthur seems to find his words again, and though he manages to keep his voice down, he doesn’t make any effort to keep his anger hidden:

“Dammit, Merlin, do not tell us you’re fine. We’ve just said we’ll wait for you, ok? As long as it takes for you to come to us. I swear, we will never mention this again, not until you mention it first, but don’t you dare tell us you’re ok.”

Merlin seems taken aback at his outburst, but Leon just nods in agreement, and Gaius hides his soft smile by looking away, under the guise of checking whether Lancelot was still asleep. When Merlin doesn’t say anything, Arthur runs a hand down his face again before standing up, gesturing for Leon to follow:

“We just wanted to check that you were... ok, and say our piece; we’ll leave you be. Tell Lance that you and he have the day off to catch up on sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With that, the two knights leave the room, shutting the door quietly and leaving Merlin speechless in his seat. He stays frozen for a few moments, not noticing the tears in his own eyes until Gaius mutters a quiet:

“Oh, my boy, I told you they would be understanding, did I not? The King is right, you should get some more sleep. Leave the door open, I can wake you if you start moving around or muttering.”

Merlin wipes his cheeks clean with a sleeve before nodding and moving silently up to his room, pausing in the doorway to say something, but deciding against it and dropping himself onto the bed without another word.

Weeks pass. Not many, but still, almost a season has gone by when Merlin decides that Arthur and Leon really meant what they had said.

No-one stops helping him: Elyan still tends to the campfires as often as he can, Percival still uses his bulk to protect Merlin from crowds, they all wake him from nightmares, and they all knock on his door before barging in. They let Lancelot deal with it—and pretend they don’t notice—the one and only time his eyes go completely glazed in front of them again. But they stop looking at him so confusedly, so pityingly. They only ever ask if he’s ok when he looks particularly gloomy or injured, and they never push when he says he’s fine, or just tired.

He doesn’t tell Gaius what he plans to do, just asks Gwen if she would mind having lunch with him one random day. The clouds hang low in the sky, dark and anxious; the air is hot and heavy, stuck in the moment just before a storm.

After they’ve eaten, he tells her the truth, and the fields beyond the city walls are scorched by lightening.

Gaius, Morgana, Mordred, are well and good, and Lancelot is wonderful and amazing and Merlin loves him to pieces, but he thinks he’s allowed to be selfish in this, he thinks it’s understandable to want his oldest and softest friend by his side when he finally lets go. Gwen is horrified, of course, at all the pain and suffering, at all Merlin had lost, for a destiny he’s not sure he even believes in anymore. When she asks if he’s finally telling the truth—in a voice so soft it alone repairs some of the ragged tears in Merlin’s soul—because he wants to, because he feels it's right, or because he just doesn’t care any longer, his answer, quiet and cracking, is “I don’t know.”.

She stays with him for the rest of the afternoon, not caring that Morgana is missing her and the servants are a little lost with both her and Merlin gone. When Arthur comes looking for his manservant, checking Gwen’s house as an absolute last resort, he sees them through the window: Gwen is sitting on a chair with tears streaming down her cheeks and her hands in Merlin’s hair, Merlin who is sat slumped on the floor at her feet, his face sobbing into her lap. She shakes her head minutely, and he stiffly makes his way back to the castle, sending a page to inform the Steward that the two of them will be indisposed for the rest of the day, and possibly tomorrow as well.

Merlin goes back to work, Arthur pretends he didn’t see anything, and Merlin pretends he didn’t sense Arthur’s presence from three streets away. A few days pass, and no one mentions Gwen’s sudden protectiveness of her best friend, her sudden need to know where he is at all times, her sudden need to check on him whenever she can. Just like no one asks Gaius what’s wrong with Merlin, no one asks Gwen either.

One more week passes, and Arthur is informed by a very confused, and slightly scandalised sounding page that a Miss Guinevere is asking for his presence in her home. When he gets there, Merlin is sat sandwiched between Gwen and Lancelot, with Mordred and Gaius stood guard behind him, Morgana stood guard by the door, and the other knights sat crowded on borrowed chairs around the small table. He sends the servant a soft smile, nodding encouragingly as he sits down without a word, grateful that he hadn’t brought his sword or donned his armour.

For the second time, Merlin tells the truth.

Gwen has some very unsightly things to say when Gwaine’s grief is easily mistaken for anger, and when Percival does nothing but sit and stare, and when Leon’s tense guilt reads like fear, but she stays silent when Arthur pulls Merlin up from his seat, a strained, but truthful smile on his face as he wraps the younger man in a tight hug, and mutters in his ear:

“It’s ok. Merlin, you’re ok.”

THE END!!

Wow. Ok so that was longer than I was expecting, but I hope y’all enjoyed it all the same!! Just a tad heavy, but you know me, I love a bit of angst (especially angst with a happy ending)!

Share your thoughts!!

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