11. A Breath Between
"Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival."
- C.S. Lewis
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Arthur spent every waking moment both on his horse and stuck in his tent at night musing over plans and escape options, but to no avail. These soldiers were careful and cautious and unfortunately, very good at what they did. He could fight with his hands bound in front of him – he'd trained for that and it wasn't just arrogance that spoke when he said he was good. Had he not had another life to worry about, he would have risked it days ago. He could also fight decently without his sight – another result of thorough training – but he could not do both, not with Merlin at risk for dangers he couldn't see and account for.
He did wonder why there had been no rescue. A party this big, traveling across the land, it should have left a trail obvious enough for even the newest squire to follow, so where were his knights? He couldn't help thinking that something big had happened at home, something awful. It was the only explanation he had and pondering on it left him stressed and worried.
He had just been drifting off to a fitful sleep after admitting defeat on yet another night of fruitless escape-planning when a loud commotion in the camp outside brought him fully awake again. He instantly rolled off the cot, ankle chain jangling, and stood – alert and cautious – ready to take advantage of any opportunity that might present itself even as he strained his ears to hear what was going on.
There was a lot of yelling and what sounded like panicked horses, but he couldn't make out what was actually being said. Presently, the chaos outside dimmed, and he was left wondering what had just happened, not for the first time wishing to see something beyond the bland walls of his canvas tent. Blindfolded by day and trapped in the tent by night, he had never felt so isolated and cut-off before in his entire life.
He was just sinking to the edge of his bed, allowing himself to relax, when the tent-flap was flung aside. He shot to his feet once more as Sir Einar marched in, an angry glower stretched across his face and Arthur's manacles in his hands.
"What's going on?" Arthur demanded, voice hardening as the older knight stepped up to him and secured his wrists. "What happ –"
The words died on his lips as two more soldiers crowded into the small tent, one carrying a pail, some rags, and a candle which he deposited beside Arthur's cot, and the other holding the bloody and beaten form of his servant, the boy unnaturally still.
Hatred seared through him. "WHAT DID YOU DO?" he roared, surging forward, only to be bodily restrained by Sir Einar. The enemy knight held him back while Merlin was placed – almost gently – on the ground by a red-haired man, who quickly attached a chain that was already cuffed to the boy's skinny ankle to the middle post of the tent, just above Arthur's own. The other two men ducked back out of the tent, leaving the prince alone with Sir Einar and a barely conscious Merlin.
"What. Did. You. Do?" he seethed again through clenched teeth, fixing a glare on the other man that had been known to curdle milk.
"I did nothing but stop the lad from being beaten to death at a drunken man's hands," the knight answered, sounding almost weary.
"The drunken hands of one of your men," Arthur countered angrily.
Sir Einar didn't deny it. Instead, he stepped away, finally allowing the prince to rush the three steps to his friend's side.
"I could have left him to the cold and a slave's lot for the night, after stopping it," the older man said. "Instead, I brought him here. You have water and clean rags and much of the night – do what you can, but know on the morrow he must walk again."
The man turned to slip out of the tent, but stopped, glancing back. "And Prince Arthur, you have my word on my honor as a knight, the man who hurt him tonight will never touch him again." Then he stepped out into the black of night and was gone.
Arthur forgot him the moment the door dropped closed, focus completely occupied with the injured boy in front of him.
"Merlin?" he called urgently, gripping his shoulder gently. "Can you hear me? It's Arthur."
The servant's eyes were only partially open, and he lay completely still, which was so very wrong. Merlin was flailing limbs and goofy smiles, corners taken too fast and laundry all over the floor, pacing and bouncing and shifting from foot to foot. He was not and never should be still and silent.
"Merlin?" he begged again, fearing the soldier's cruelty may have been one brutality too many for the boy to bear and, though the youth wasn't unconscious, everything that made him Merlin may have fled.
Then one of his friend's hands moved. Slowly, it crept up until his long fingers curled into the fabric of Arthur's sleeve, holding on as if for dear life, while a fresh batch of tears cut trails through the already moist grime on Merlin's face.
Arthur's heart broke.
Knowing time was wasting, he gently tugged his arm from Merlin's grip, and then carefully patted the servant all over, a job made even more awkward by the fact the manacles prevented Arthur from separating his hands more than a few inches. Merlin barely moved, though Arthur knew he had to be causing more pain, and his worry climbed even higher. Still, he didn't think anything other than skin was broken, though there were a couple of ribs he wasn't so sure about.
Once he was mostly convinced he wouldn't be doing more damage, he hoisted the boy over his shoulder and then deposited him with care onto his own bed. He moved the candle to a better, safer location and then snagged the bucket of water and rags before sitting on the edge of the cot, praying the old wood would hold both their weight as he turned back to his friend.
Merlin's lids had opened a bit farther and he appeared to be staring at Arthur, though his gaze was still glazed with tears and confusion.
Arthur wet a rag, wrung it out, and then gently started to clean the blood and filth from the boy's head and face, trying not to bash Merlin in the face with his own chain as he worked.
He discovered a lip that had been bitten through, a cut to the forehead and one to the cheek, and bruise upon bruise upon bruise. Arthur also found that while his friend shivered as if he were freezing, his skin was hot and clammy with fever. No wonder the boy was dazed and out of it – he was lucky not to be unconscious. With each injury that was revealed, Arthur's fury grew, but he forced it down. Merlin was in no condition to sort out anger directed at others from anger directed at himself, especially after the mistake that started this whole nightmare.
When Merlin's face and head were checked and cleaned, Arthur unwound the beloved neckerchief, setting it aside. The boy was now watching him and he was relieved to see there was cognizance and awareness in his blue eyes once more.
"There you are, idiot," he said softly, not even bothering to hide the worry or fondness in his voice. "Do you know where you are?"
The answering nod was slow and pained, but unmistakable. Arthur smiled, shoving his rage deeper inside for later.
"Can you sit?" he asked next. "I can't hold you up and tend to your wounds at the same time. Not like…this," he admitted ruefully, displaying his closely chained hands for his younger friend to see.
Again, Merlin gave a slow, weary nod.
Arthur eased him forward and then turned him sidewise, Merlin achingly swinging his legs so they hung over the edge of the cot. He wobbled precariously for a few long moments after Arthur let go, but managed to stay upright.
Between both of them having chained hands and Merlin being hardly able to move let alone lift his arms, removing the boy's jacket and shirt was an inelegant and painful affair. Eventually, though, they were bunched at his wrists and Arthur had an unobstructed view of his servant's chest and back.
The horrible burning, hatred towards those who had captured them and done this flared to life again and he was grateful Merlin seemed to be studying his boots.
He'd lost weight – weight he hadn't had to lose in the first place. The boy's ribs were beginning to show with alarming clarity against the skin, and that skin was painted with a kaleidoscope of bruises, cuts, and abrasions that blended together so closely Arthur was hard pressed to find a few patches of unharmed paleness.
Merlin had been beaten to a bloody pulp, and Arthur was supposed to make it all better in a couple of hours with a bucket of water and a few rags? He would have laughed, if it weren't so far from funny he felt more like being sick.
He wished Gaius were there, to tell him what to do for Merlin's hurts – to fix things properly with his caring hands and medicine. And he wished Gwen were there, soothing Merlin with her quiet words and presence – healing with the love of a friend. The moment he wished it, however, he took it all back, because he would never in all of eternity wish those two, gentle souls there with them, caught up in this pain and horror. In fact, he wished the gentle soul sitting before him was as far from it all as possible, uninjured and home in Camelot – safe.
But wishes wouldn't change anything. Merlin was there – badly hurt – and the others were not, and the only one around to provide any help was Arthur. With a sigh, he rinsed his rag and got back to work.
His movements were stilted and uncoordinated, and the silence that stretched between them was loaded with so many unsaid thoughts it almost had physical weight. Arthur did his best, but he had the hands of a warrior – calloused and rough; they weren't used to being gentle. He could bind a battle-field wound until more expert help arrived, but he'd never had to sooth and comfort before.
"If you ever breathe a word of this to anyone," he started, falling back into their usual banter to kill the awkwardness, but then he stopped in horror, dripping cloth frozen in his hands as his eyes lit on the glaring, metal collar that circled Merlin's neck and the realization of what he'd just said hit him.
The words finally drew Merlin's attention up from the ground, but to his surprise and relief, there wasn't accusation and hurt on his face but the beginnings of a smile. It broadened as Merlin gave him a knowing look, turning into one of the full-fledged grins Arthur was so used to, albeit a very exhausted version. With a trembling hand, Merlin reached up and made a locking motion in front of his lips, then mimed tossing away an invisible key.
Arthur laughed, and just like that the tension was gone, taking the embarrassment of before with it as well. The circumstances hadn't changed, nor had the awfulness of his present task, but somehow a little normalcy had been returned. They were Arthur and Merlin again – master and servant, and best friends – though Arthur would die before he admitted that last part out loud to anyone other than the boy beside him.
Before Merlin came along, Arthur had never thought he needed friends. A prince should have servants, subjects, knights – people who followed him and did exactly what he ordered of them. He'd had pseudo-friends – the sons of nobles and knights near his age who'd flocked after him – but he'd always known their friendship was simply to guarantee a better position once he was king, and as such, they never dared to contradict him. And then Merlin had tumbled into his life – impertinent, never obeying orders, questioning his every word. He'd gone from wanting to strangle the boy to somehow trusting him with the thoughts and feelings he'd never shared with another living soul, and he wasn't even entirely sure how it happened. But he couldn't deny it – Merlin was his first real friend.
His father had drilled into him that such things were a weakness – un-princely and foolish. Friends made him vulnerable – which he supposed, as he glanced around the dirty tent he was trapped in, was true. But, looking back at the trembling boy before him – a boy who had now lost everything and still managed to grace him with a trusting smile – he knew his father was also wrong; friends made him stronger.
Warmed by this epiphany, he finished washing Merlin's back and chest, pausing for a long time to study a particularly black bruise over the boy's ribs on his right side. When he pushed on it, two of the bones gave slightly and Merlin sucked in a harsh breath through his nose, hands tightening to fists against his thighs.
"Are they broken?" Arthur asked, knowing the servant had more expertise with medicine and broken bones than he did, being Gaius' ward and all.
The young man wobbled his hand back and forth slightly, which Arthur took to mean "cracked" then. Not that it mattered, he thought bitterly – he hadn't anything to bind them with anyway.
"Can you breathe all right?" That was his main worry. Merlin indicated that he was fine, and there was nothing more to do but move on.
He pulled Merlin's clothes back on, even replacing the ragged scarf, and then helped him lie down again. The servant's eyes were starting to droop once more, lack of sleep and food, coupled with harsh work, terror, and agony taking their toll.
"You have a fever, Merlin," Arthur said softly, tapping against the boy's cheek to stop his fluttering eyes from closing just yet. "Can you tell me what's causing it?"
Another nod, almost imperceptible, and his hand grazed over his right leg where there was a large tear in his trousers.
"Trousers off, then," Arthur said, trying to sound unconcerned and not horribly uncomfortable, but he needn't have bothered. Merlin's eyes were closed in sleep. Arthur left him to it; he desperately needed the rest and it would probably be easier for both of them if he just slept through this next part.
The smell of infection hit him strongly as soon as he started to ease the filthy, torn material down Merlin's legs. The limbs were a mass of black and blue bruises, just like the rest of his body, and Arthur cringed to think of the pain walking all day would cause his friend. But the source of the odor was an injury that took his breath away when he finally got a good look at it, a deep gash on the boy's right thigh.
It had been clumsily bandaged once, which answered the question of what had happened to Merlin's tunic, but it was obvious the servant hadn't been able to care for it for days. The whole thing was a disaster of dirty, crusted material, oozing pus, and the hot inflammation of infected skin.
It was bad. Very bad. As Arthur peeled away the filthy bandage and peered directly at the cut, his heart sank. The wound itself wouldn't have been life threatening if properly cared for, but now…
"Oh, idiot," he sighed, fear clenching his insides. He had never felt so helpless.
He set the strip of cloth aside, to rinse in a moment, ground his teeth, and took up his wet rag once more.
It wasn't pleasant. Merlin had tried to pack the wound with some sort of herb, but his inability to change the dressing for however long had probably made things worse. It needed to be thoroughly cleansed and opened, as much foreign material and infection as possible purged, and all Arthur had was a pail of increasingly murky water and his own hands.
Merlin jerked back awake at his first probing touches of the injury and then lay there ridged as Arthur worked, swollen lip pulled between his teeth and his hands clenched around the chain that connected them. His eyes were pinched shut, though occasionally a small tear leaked out, and his breathing was harsh and ragged.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Arthur muttered over and over again as he dug and squeezed, sponging away the pus and infection that ran out.
Finally, it was as clean as Arthur could get it given his limited supplies. He rinsed the original bandage and set it aside to dry, knowing he'd need it later, then wiped the wound down one last time before covering it loosely with the remaining dry rags. He pulled Merlin's trousers up to just above his knees, then tucked every blanket the soldiers had given him around the shivering boy.
"Hey," he said softly, tugging on his friend's white-knuckle grip of the chain, "I'm done. I won't touch it again. Just sleep now."
Gradually, Merlin relaxed, and Arthur drew the blankets up to his chin, then he sat on the ground beside the cot where he could reach him with his bound hands. Recalling something he'd seen Gwen do once when Merlin was suffering from a winter illness, he reached out and tentatively brushed the hair off the boy's sweaty forehead, then ran his fingers through the greasy locks a few times before letting his hands drop to the edge of the bed.
Merlin was almost asleep, his breath finally back under control after enduring so much suffering, but before he drifted off completely, he shifted his chained hand sideways and latched onto Arthur's wrist. Then, holding on tight, he finally allowed himself to fall asleep once more.
For a long time, Arthur just sat there shivering from the cold. Making no move to release Merlin's trembling grip, he stared at his servant as the candle burned low and sputtered, trying to come to terms with what his mind was telling him.
Merlin was dying. In his weakened state, with little food and rest, the infection in the wound would spread unchecked and surely kill him if not given proper treatment.
And Arthur had no idea what to do to prevent that from happening, he only knew that he must.
"I promise you will not die here, as their slave, Merlin," he whispered fervently. "Somehow, I will get us out of this colossal mess. I swear it."
As if to mock his words, the candle suddenly burned out with a hiss, plunging him into frozen darkness. Heart hurting and feeling like a complete failure, Arthur let his head sink down to the edge of the cot and slept, his own fingers clutching the fabric of Merlin's sleeve.
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Author's Note: Hopefully this makes up for the long wait last time. :) As always, thanks to Missy and Smuffly – you know what for.