:.:
"You're as changeable as this blasted weather!"
:.:
The leather roping glided onto the soft skin of Merlin's tunic, upholding the weight of the training shield. Calloused fingers bent the buckles snuggly to his curve, then taunted the straps by flexing his arm muscle. Once reassured of its security, he ducked between the tents to prepare for the beating he was soon to endure.
Sickly dampness of the air wove Merlin's clothing to his skin; he felt smaller than ever, swallowed whole by his disheveled garments. The downcast noonday made an exhibition of his sallow cheeks, and creeped into the crevices of sunken eyes. This caricature of the knight's friend was made more comical by the drastic contrast of hair, flat and lifeless on his head.
Still, Merlin bore a grin that exposed one-too-many teeth, and held himself with the demeanor of strength. If his ribs protruded through the warm blanket of skin, hugging too tightly to the bone, if his body was constantly faint, head lolling with never diminished heaviness, if there were scars chasing across sunken cavities of flesh, it didn't matter. All that mattered was Merlin's presence for duties, ranging from protecting the king from mortal peril to dusting the mantel piece ( which, according to Arthur, was a detail too often neglected ).
Knights of Camelot lined around the training field with boots soaked in dew and figures donned in reflective chain mail; the younger knights waited eagerly with dancing feet and swirling stomachs to prove their capabilities in front of their leader, while the aged knights acted jocular with boasting laughter, lighthearted as to when their moment of swordsmanship arrived.
Merlin took his place opposite of the first in line, who happened to be Sir Gwaine. Arthur stood to the side, strategically planning for Gwaine to set the example for the newest of knights this session.
"Merlin," Arthur chimed from behind Gwaine, who brandished his sword playfully and sported a friendly grin. "Aren't you forgetting something?"
Merlin blinked at a fog of dissociation; looking himself up and down, he realized that, of course, he hadn't a helmet.
"Here."
Gwaine motioned to Sir Besiver who tossed him a dingey, iron protectant that looked as if it'd rested at the bottom of the barrel within the armory for a couple decades. He proceeded to pass it to Merlin, who barely managed to catch the helmet with one appendage free. Merlin shrugged it onto his head, a condensation of breath heating the metal edges.
"I promise I'll go easy on you," Gwaine spoke with a smirk, twisting his wrist as he twirled his sword, then sweeping the hair from his eyes.
Merlin managed a small laugh, bracing himself for the blows whilst Arthur assessed.
Like lightning, Gwaine was upon him. It was all Merlin could do to remain rooted; in his fluster to be prepared, he'd forgotten the state of his arm.
One strike followed another, Gwaine side-stepping and heaving as blows thundered on the painted patterns of the shield. Fierce determination wrinkled his face; his focus remained stoutly on his task.
All the while Merlin bit his cheek as flashes of white pain pulsed in his arm. The world spun, all sense of direction was lost on him. After a moment he found the solid earth at his back. The shadow of a voice began to clear in Merlin's ears, "...supposed to train with you falling at the slightest hit?"
It was Arthur. Merlin's eyes slowly found the shine of golden hair that bent towards him, offering a hand for guidance back to standing.
"Sorry, Arthur," Merlin muttered. The haze eventually ran the cycle of glittering lights, to foreign shapes, to curious and worried knights staring at him.
The king sighed, reaching an arm underneath Merlin's shoulder so as to steady him.
"Training will follow to one-on-one combat. Pick your partner, and set up immediately. We will continue a different practice when I return. That means everyone, Gwaine."
The knight moved at the recognition .
"You can always count on me to be on task, Princess." With less than grace, Gwaine dipped in a soft curtsey.
The other knights chuckled at his remark before deciding their half-hour opponents. As Arthur led the strained form of Merlin back to a particularly crimson tent, the clashing of metal drove away the echoes of songbirds.
It was after the helmet and shield were removed, both king and servant sat comfortably in a pair of seats, before Arthur spoke. Merlin cradled his arm, the caress not left unnoticed by Arthur.
"You know, knocked over in under five seconds; I believe that's a new record for walking targets," he tried for a little banter.
Merlin grimaced. He cautioned to trace his sight over every inch of the rubber drapes, down to the pounded dirt with a cast of red tint. It was all too bright, all too reminiscent of a color he associated with shame, engulfing him. Lungs swallowed air in bouts of rising unease, deserting the little even breath he'd attained following his battering.
"You don't even laugh at my jokes anymore, Merlin!" Arthur said. His hands were wringing backwards and forwards, flustered eyes flittering. "What has come over you?"
There was a stone growing in Merlin's stomach; it rolled down his esophagus, into the digestive track, threatening to rupture the fragile tapestry. "I'm not sure what you mean," Merlin replied, monotonous.
"Not sure what I mean?" Arthur repeated. "You rarely speak. You rarely eat. There's never an emotion about you at all. In front of me, at one second was my servant, the cheeky, snarky ass, who barely meets the quota of service for his pay-grade; then, the moment I turn around, it's as if I've glanced back after blowing the Horn of Cathbad."
"I - uh," Merlin stuttered. He hadn't realized his depression was impossibly translucent.
"Perhaps I'm just overworked!" He mended.
"Overworked? That's a laugh. Since when have you completed any work in the last month? I come home to find my room dusty, disorganized, no food on the table, never any polished armor or clean garments, the horses' stables are drenched in filth... If you wanted time off, you could've asked. I wouldn't mind granting you a day at the tavern once in a while, if it means you attend to your duties. Is that what is the matter? Are you constantly so full of ale, that Gwaine has a new opponent for the largest tab at the Rising Sun?"
Merlin laughed dryly. "I'm pretty sure no one in the five kingdoms could perform such miracles."
"Then what, Merlin? What the hell is wrong with you?"
Perfectly agitated by Arthur's exasperation and lack of gentle wording about a seemingly important topic to him, Merlin rose to wobbly feet.
"If I could tell you Arthur, I would. Believe me, I want to. But you're not ready. Just," Merlin shook his head, gazing upward, "have patience."
Arthur stood, perplexed by Merlin's words, but calmer. "Will me having patience really heal whatever is ailing you?"
"In time, yes."
"Will it make you a better moving target, one that actually takes effort to beat?"
Merlin pursed his lips. "Most likely, no."
Dissatisfied, but lent enough to live by without decimating worry, Arthur gave a genuine smile and clasped Merlin's forearm.
Merlin's breath hitched. He instinctively tore his arm from Arthur's grasp to distance the iron grip.
Dazed, he saw Arthur retract his hand, the creases of his face distorting with frown, and peer at his palm, tinged with red.
"Merlin, you're hurt..." Arthur reached to tug at the wool sleeve. Merlin flinched, drawing his arm closer, finding his thoughts linked with the racing heart in his chest.
"It's nothing, I assure you," Merlin smiled, adjusting his sleeves and attempting to step around Arthur. The king blocked the exit with a persuasive arm.
"Let me see. Quick and easy. Then we'll have Gaius dress your newest battle wound. There's no shame in getting proper care, you know," Arthur spoke.
"It's not that - hey!" Merlin yelped as Arthur grabbed the upper half of his arm and forced his sleeve upwards.
"Really Merlin, you're such a-"
Tension pounded in Merlin's ears, in syncopation to the clatter of training outside, the lull of the wind's high notes against the tent, the uneven breath that stole from Arthur's nostrils and brought color to his cheeks.
Arthur's eyes stoutly remained downcast, but Merlin squirmed underneath the glare.
"'Got in a tussle with the palace dogs," he breathed. "...too eager for their supper."
He waited for Arthur to acknowledge him, searching for some specific reaction.
Where Merlin expected anger to seep, all that was recognizable in Arthur's eyes as they locked with his own was deep mourning.
"Merlin..." He began, Adam's apple dropping with each swallow of stale words, "I've seen many a young knight fall prey to afflictions such as your own. They bend under pressure of inducing mortality, until they decide to face it."
His bones were paralyzed. A skeleton of stringent anxiety. He could hardly carry Arthur's intent gaze, as the king brushed his thumb against a jutting scar.
"This is not the answer to your problems," Arthur finished calmly, his speech reminiscent to that of words he'd spoken at the peek of battlements, behind woeful soldiers desperate to cast away their greatest gift.
The surroundings became a blur when tears muddled Merlin's vision. Arthur had no idea the weight upon his shoulders, filled with the fate of men, playing god as he took lives that endangered and protected lives that endangered still. If there were other ways of coping, Merlin had tried them; from brewing potions, to artistry, to swordsmanship. Nothing kindled the flavor of resentment towards his life like the scraping of fragments into brittle skin, or caving of bones that echoed pains of hunger, twisting sound through rib cages. It was the only sense of control Merlin had gathered. He'd no ability to force his breath away in a bucket of bath water, or clumsiness yet to trip over a sword.
"It's my decision." Merlin retorted. "The things I face - there is no relief. This is the only way I can manage."
Arthur's shoulders visibly dropped, and he began to drag Merlin out of the tent. "You can't keep doing this to yourself. We have to tell Giaus before you do something stupid."
"No!" Merlin shouted, desperate to yank away from him. He couldn't lose his control over his body, over his existence. "I won't forgive you if you do," he tried, voice cracking, positive that if they stole his blades, he wouldn't touch food at all. Growing exasperation rose on Arthur's face.
"I can't lose you as well!" Arthur cried, releasing Merlin.
Of course. Guinevere had been lost only months previous...
"You're the closest friend I have, and I couldn't bear..." He breathed, his shadowy fear loomed over Merlin's guilt. He had to reassure the king, roles reversed in the confusing situation of mortality.
"I won't be leaving you any time soon, my Lord. I made a pact, remember? Happy to serve, until the day I die."
With that, Merlin left him, boots digging up dirt beginning to soften at the starting rainfall.
Arthur trained his eyes upwards, peering at the slow motion of the drops reaching for him in a milk sky. Fear clutched his heart and strangled his mind, but Arthur persevered to school his features before returning to his knights.
The glance he shared with Gwaine, who watched as Merlin left, lent the pain he'd now received in a screaming, silent stare.
He couldn't bare to lose him.
Never.