Sound of Silence
Summary:
It was a strange feeling, his skin burned but he felt so cold—the tips of his fingers were so numb that Merlin was certain they weren't even attached to his hands attached to his wrists attached to his arms anymore. He fell, one hand instinctively, uselessly clutching his throat as thought the limb could press hard enough to keep every droplet of crimson inside—every fragment of his life force that slipped through his fingers.
…
If he could do that long enough, he supposed that he could make it back to Gaius.
…
The thought of his mentor led to the thought of Camelot—Camelot leading to Arthur and Gwaine and Lancelot and Guinevere and Percival and Elyan and Leon. He could see flashes; his life playing out before him like a final scene—a final act before the candles were snuffed and the world wallowed by unfeeling, uncaring darkness.
…
It was a horrid way to die, he thought to himself, alone—not even looked for, it would be hours before anyone worried over his absence and possibly days before they looked going off the past—in a dark forest with men who did not even know his name. They wouldn't hold him as the light faded, too busy sorting through the items in his satchel to care for the lifeblood soaking the forest floor around their worn boots.
…
Another angsty, Merlin-centered one-shot that explores the cost of immortality on one man and what I suppose that might look like—not never dying, but never staying dead, the heart can stop but it can be restarted and magic, itself, can be resuscitating.
The movement was quick, entirely too sharp and precise, the sharpened blade—a small, unnoticeable dagger that could blend easily into the rustling, hastily stitched fabrics of clothing—slicing easily through skin.
Later, if there was a chance for laters, he would reflect on how long it took for his legs to crumple and his body to fall to the harsh, leaf-strewn forest floor. Rocks and pebbles blanketed his fall, leaving tiny purpling marks on his skin, and it was an odd thought—one he didn't know whether he should be focusing on or not, but his mind noted those small pinches of pain before a burning sensation swept over him, wiping away those tiny bruises and replacing them.
Instinctively, his right hand grappled for his throat, moving the blue neckerchief he alternated for a red one as a statement of his wardrobe, as his ears started ringing. It was a skull-splitting ring that he feared would destroy his eardrums, rising in pitch and swallowing any other sound that might be made. He felt like he was burning—his throat burned, like liquid fire had been poured over his neck—but there were tingles forming in the tips of his fingers spreading to his hands to his wrists to his arms.
He likened it to ribbons knotting tightly around the bones and muscles, weaving in between veins and arteries, leaving a trail of numbness in their wake. He didn't know if his fingers continued pressing against his throat, the gesture completely useless, but some desperation-soaked part of his mind thought that maybe if he put enough pressure on the wound, he could survive.
If he pressed hard enough, he could—he would make it back to the citadel. Gaius would know what to do, he might scold Merlin for his own recklessness and impertinent tongue, but he would patch him up and the wound would hurt but Merlin would wake in the morning and attend to the king like he had for the past three years. He had followed the same routine so many times and this time would be no different—it had to be no different. There had been so many wounds and new scars hardening his skin and this would be just another added to the collection.
He didn't notice when his eyes slid closed, the darkness all-consuming and potent, but he focused every fiber of his mind on just keeping pressure on the wound, dismissing the potent memories to the back of his mind—it wasn't the time for them.
That's what they did, his mind recalled. When someone suffered a deep wound they put pressure on it before treating it with an assortment of herbs and ointments and poultices before stitching the skin together and bandaging the lingering scar. Merlin had none of the final things, his herbs were being strewn out on the forest floor along with the belongings in his satchel. The handbook he had taken to pick the rare herbs Gaius had given him the chore of locating for the morning. The few pieces of coin he would need in the market later. The early-lunch he had planned on eating.
He didn't have potions and ointments and poultices—just his own hands to apply pressure. He just—he had to keep applying pressure on the wound and someone—anyone would happen along, and he would survive. And whoever happened along, if they weren't more bandits or mercenaries or slave-traders would note an injured man and help—or maybe that was him putting himself in someone else's shoes because he would do it if he stumbled upon a near-dead man.
At the very least, he would give a stranger the mercy of not dying alone and so dreadfully cold—fingers turning into chunks of ice, turning so, unnaturally blue.
He had been in situations like this before—his mind reminded itself, flicking back to a primary example located in Morgause binding him in magical chains and summoning a nest of venomous serkets to finish him off. He had survived then, when all of the odds and likelihoods indicated that he should have perished. But then, he could shout for the dragon—Kilgarrah, his father's dragon that had become his dragon—and now he could hardly focus on forming those words. His magic was fleeing, he realized dimly.
It was becoming cold and dull when Merlin had always felt it to be vibrant and iridescent. That didn't mean anything, his mind argued, it didn't have to mean anything. He would be fine. He just—he had to keep pressing against his neck with his fingers and then—then everything would be fine. He would get back to Camelot—he would get back to the only place that had ever brought with it the warmth of home, of belonging—and everything would be fine.
It had to be.
Merlin could feel the coldness, stretching further across his body—numbing the muscles and tendons and ligaments. It was the first inkling he had that this—that he wouldn't—but no. No. No. He would be fine.
The world twisted and swirled over his head—the colors mixing like wet-paint or the newly-designed different-colored inks—and the ringing in his ears persisted, making him wonder if his eardrum would be destroyed and his ears would start leaking blood as well, joining the flowing lifeblood pouring from his neck. Merlin could hardly pick out the finer details—the singular leaves on the branches above his head, the fine lines of those branches, the oddly-shaped clouds that could be anything Merlin imagined them to be.
He reflexively swallowed—and the movement caused him to feel like he was burning again. Oh gods, his throat, it burned too much for his thoughts to do anything but fly apart. Darkness stained his vision and a detached part of his mind noted that the fingers pressing against his throat lowered and dropped against the floor. His mind rebelled, trying to pick his fingers back up and keep pressure on the wound.
But, what would be the point?
Surviving?
Merlin knew that he would not survive without immediate medical care and—and it wasn't coming. There was no-one in his immediate area but the bandits—one of which had slit Merlin's throat deeply and left him to drop on the floor so they could split their earnings. Why did his belongings become their earnings? The sentiment seemed to be the last thing he should be worrying over. He wasn't even sure they were still present or if they had gathered what they could and ditched—there was no need to take his clothes, he noted, as they were too blood-stained and that was not easy to wash out of clothes.
Nameless bandits would not want to waste their time trying to clean blood-stains out of the clothes when they had their own and had no need for the fabrics—he doubted that they were seamstresses or even knew of one that would cut the patches of fabric for the recoverable pieces. Pieces that weren't crusted with dark blood or covered in mud and dirt and grass-stains.
Gwen was the only one that Merlin knew of who could perform true miracles with fabric. The thought of the Queen made his heart clench for his oldest friend—she had been the first friend that Merlin made in Camelot and the one who had held the title before her had been Will, but Will was gone. A death that would become pointless in the end as Merlin wouldn't die honorably, defending Arthur or see any of his dreams realized. He would die, alone and unlooked for from a throat slit by bandits who didn't even know his name.
He didn't know why that tidbit bothered him so much, but it did. They had not a single clue as to who they had killed for meager belongings that would hardly last them a month—and that was it. That would be all his death would lead to—just bandits with a few extra coins lining their pockets and what about his friends? His family? What would become of them? They would recover, he supposed, they would mourn him—but eventually, he would be only a meaningless, distant memory.
A servant killed by bandits—it was nothing worthy of any stories or legends—and that nothingness would be all Merlin would slip into. He wanted to sob for the fact that he would be so easily forgotten, his sacrifices so easily overlooked, his sufferings pointless.
Merlin hadn't thought that he would be so greedy as to want that acknowledgement. He worked well in the shadows, and it suited him—he did not have need for the praise or the glory, because it simply made him feel awkward and stilted and uncomfortable in his own skin. But, he felt the flicker of greed in that moment, the greed of wanting more than just becoming nothing. Well, perhaps, not becoming nothing, but always being nothing—his true worth hidden and oh gods, no one would ever know it.
Gaius would, a voice piped up, and maybe his mentor would share his stories—but why would he? Merlin would have died with people at least thinking of him with fond friendship rather than his memory being stained with liar. Sorcerer. Magic
So, his mentor wouldn't because he would want Merlin to be remembered for those short, precious years with fondness and no-one would ever know. They would never know his stories—the ones that he held so privately to him that Gaius didn't even know them, and they were meant for Arthur to know. For Arthur to know and pass judgement before anyone else knew and passed judgement.
And, no one would ever know his worth.
Because—because he was dying.
He didn't want to die. Not like this—never like this, alone and so, so unbearably cold. He thought there might be tears trailing out of the corners of his eyes, seeping into the hair on the side of his head. Merlin didn't want to die. He hadn't done all that he was meant to do—damn it, he couldn't fail like this. What about all of the people who had believed in him? Could their belief had truly been so misplaced?
Merlin wanted Arthur. He wanted his brother so badly. He needed Arthur.
Where's Arthur? Please, Arthur, where are you?
His eyes slipped closed, the lids falling, and he didn't even realize that he shouldn't let them close before it was too late, and he tried to open his eyes. He tried to focus on the view above him, the leaves and trees framing a brilliant blue sky scattered with white, fluffy-clouds that could form any imaginative shape. He could see it so plainly in his mind's eye and it was so beautiful. The vibrancy of the green leaves and the blue sky and the animals that danced from branch to branch.
Merlin pried his eyes open; the world was almost too blurry for him to focus on the idyllic scene he craved vehemently. He wished—he wished he had more time to appreciate it. Oh gods, please, I don't want to go.
He hadn't done all of the things he was meant to do—he hadn't told Arthur about his magic or bested Morgana and the prophecies that determined Arthur's death. His work remained unfinished, and he couldn't die. Not like this, not until Arthur was completely safe or it would be his king following him into the grave not soon after and what would become of the kingdom Arthur desired to build? Camelot would fall to ruin without an heir—and no, Morgana did not count—and Merlin couldn't just lay here, accepting death.
Put pressure on the wound, Merlin.
The voice, the thought, sounded eerily reminiscent of Gaius. His mentor. His father in everything but blood. The man who had taken Merlin under his wing and into his care—disregarding Camelot's primary law for him—and who Merlin could always trust and always count on to be there. Gaius. Merlin had to get back to him—he couldn't leave Gaius like this, he hardly remembered if he had said goodbye or thanked the man properly for everything that he had done for him.
What had been the last thing he said to Gaius? To Gwaine? To Lancelot? Had he told them all that they meant to him? Had he told them how much he valued their friendships? Gaius, his mentor. Gwaine, his best friend that never failed to keep the light in Merlin from coming back when it felt all-but-lost. The man who would follow him anywhere, who made jokes about horrendous creatures being large pheasants. Lancelot, another best friend—another brother—who had accepted Merlin unfalteringly. The man who followed him into facing off against magical creatures—disregarding his own safety. The man who comforted him in the lone hours when he felt the weight of his destiny too keenly.
Had he thanked them? What was the last thing he had ever said to them? He couldn't remember if he had even seen them this morning. Had he seen Arthur this morning? Had he told the prat, clotpole, dollophead, how much Merlin treasured their friendship—treasured what could not be acknowledged? Had he told Arthur that he believed in him? That he was proud of him.
What about Gwen? Had he told her that she was a brilliant queen—that she was so wonderful and kind and compassionate? Had he told her to not lose herself beneath the expectations? Had he told her how much he valued her?
And his mother—oh gods, his mother—had he said goodbye to her? Had he told her how much he loved her? She had always been there—always a warmth in his corner and she had held him when he was young and so convinced that he was a monster. A vessel for all of the dark, monstrous things in the world. A freak. A bastard with a father that didn't love him—according to the country bullies. She had sat there in those hours, curled around him, and protecting him from the world that was far too harsh.
It was horrible, Merlin thought, to not even be sure that he had shown the people he treasured more than life itself any semblance of gratitude and to die without his any of them knowing how eternally grateful Merlin was to them for standing by him.
He owed so much to the family he had forged, and he had—he had to get back to them. He couldn't die like this—not with all of these words and epiphanies and stories dying with him. Merlin tried to lift his fingers, to move his hand, to pour every droplet of his strength into putting pressure on his slit throat—but he couldn't feel his hands. He couldn't feel them, anymore. He didn't even know if they were still attached to his body and—no. He had to find some other way, there had to be something else he could do.
He thought of his magic—his failures at using healing spells on himself—but it was becoming unresponsive, and his mind could scarcely form the words of the magical tongue. He thought of Kilgarrah, but the dragon would be too far away, and he was too close to Camelot in broad daylight and the great dragon would be spotted and Merlin would die anyways. But, instead of dying alone, he would be bringing his kin into the slaughter with him. Though, his soul yearned to call for Kilgarrah, to summon him back to Camelot because Merlin needed him—he hadn't completed his destiny—he didn't.
He could not be responsible for the dying out of the last of his kin as Aithusa was too young to be alone and without Kilgarrah's guidance, she might be killed, and Merlin couldn't let everything that remained of his father and their shared lineage die out with him. The dragons had to survive him.
Merlin couldn't die, either—because there were no other dragonlords left. There had to be some way—there had to be. But, he couldn't hardly think of one and this couldn't be how he died.
He would never see any of the people he loved again. Not his mother. Nor Gaius. Nor Arthur. Nor Guinevere. Nor Gwaine. Nor Lancelot. Percival. Elyan. Leon. And, what if they never found him? What if they just thought he disappeared into nothing as though he never existed at all? Merlin could feel his eyes closing once more and he panicked because he hadn't even spent more than a moment appreciating the last chance he had at seeing the beauty the world had to offer.
It was so cold.
The world, it just felt—so, so, infinitely cold.
And, he—he had given it his all—and it hadn't been enough.
Something cracked and he's breathing. Oh gods, he's breathing, and it burns. Merlin can feel more of his fingers as he scrambled for purchase in the dirt, one hand shooting with new-found desperation to his throat. Merlin dropped to the ground, his neck burning, and he can feel the rivulets of blood leaking from his throat and dripping into the grass and dirt concoction beneath him. He tried to keep his hands on his throat—tries to apply more pressure to the wound and his magic hums at his fingers, vainly trying to patch together the skin.
Patch together the worst of it. Merlin's eyelashes fluttered and he noted that the sky looks different. It's darker, pinks and oranges and yellows and purples starting from one point and spreading outward, and Merlin thought that it might be close to sunset, or it could be sunrise—he doesn't remember. He can only feel desperation, something that ripped at him—tearing at his mind with renewed purpose—and he pressed his fingers harder against his throat, the thought filling him with vigor.
He had to get to Gaius. If he got to Gaius, then his mentor would be able to patch him up and then everything would be fine. He would wake-up the next day, good-as-new and probably falling out of bed in haste to serve Arthur as he would doubtlessly be late.
Arthur might blame it on the tavern and Merlin would feel exceedingly annoyed and exasperated at his brother's oblivious nature. But, it would be an almost natural, everyday interaction that would bleed into the next day and the day that would follow that and no one—save for Merlin would remember the moments when he had been unable to move from the forest floor because his throat had been deeply, grotesquely slit.
It was a miracle that the blade hadn't cut straight through and separated his head from his body—though Merlin might have minutely considered that to be a mercy when compared against trying to claw his way back to Camelot with so much blood slipping through his fingers as he vainly tried to press them against the wound to stem the lifeblood from leaving his body anymore than it already had.
Focus.
His mind ordered and Merlin closed his eyes, trying to lift himself with his unoccupied hand and then there was nothing save for the pain and his gurgled screams. Merlin nearly blacked out from the pain, and he could feel the blood slipping faster in between his fingers and the all-too-familiar coldness clawing its way through his muscles and tendons and ligaments. No. This couldn't be happening. Not again. He had felt this, and he couldn't fail, his mind was begging the gods—begging for someone to come.
Please.
I don't want to die alone, not again.
He felt so, so cold.
Just a few more minutes.
Just a few more tries.
Air rushed into his lungs, his chest hitchingly rising and falling and Merlin desperately sobbed as he registered the pain in his throat, the blood caking his skin and there was so, so much of it and he wondered how there was any left in him to shed at all.
He pressed his fingers against his throat, eyes goldening as he summoned every iota of magic he had at his disposal—trying to patch the skin together once more and not think of the hellish, nightmare he had found himself in. All-too-soon, coldness rushed him, and he could feel the gooseflesh crawling across his skin like little stampeding ants. It marched, like a live, tangible thing.
A detached part of him wondered if this was how Leon had felt when he had nearly died and been revived by the Cup of Life—this helpless, horrid feeling as his lifeblood stained the forest floor and the coldness of dying alone. He wondered if Leon had been held in his final moments, if someone had deigned him worthy of that or if it had simply been an occasion where he felt such loneliness. At least, Leon had almost died honorably—fallen in battle and that was worth so much more than dying like this.
He had failed to stop them. All of his power—all of the strength in his magic and his training underneath a schooled healer—was for naught. He hadn't gone down fighting, with the blood of a battle-cry staining his lips but left to brutal strangers and the blood staining his lips that of desperation. Of weakness. Of the very epitome of pitifulness. It was the death of a man who could do nothing.
In that moment, Merlin loathed himself.
Burning—hot like coals being dropped on his skin—so brilliant that his mind flew-apart due to the all-encompassing nature of it. Desperation—fingers uselessly pressing against a wound, being painted red more than stemming the blood-flow. Grief—for all that was being left behind, of words unsaid, of stories untold, of epiphanies unshared. Coldness—fingers turning numb and body turning number and hands and legs drooping into the earth. Darkness—so thick and poignant and unable to turn away, lost to self-loathing and then to death not long after.
Then, it all starts again. The burning, the desperation, the grief, the coldness, the darkness. It keeps going, a cycle that never ends—a wheel that never stops turning. Over and over and over and over and over.
Burn.
He was in hell—a hell unlike anything he had ever pictured.
Desperate.
Perhaps, he had deserved the hell he was cycling through repeatedly. His sins outweighed the good he had done. Perhaps, it was the monster under his skin—the one that was accursed with the word demon, monster, murderer.
Grief.
In death, he begged for more. He begged for more time. More time to say the words that he needed to say. You're my friend. You're my brothers and sister. You're my father. You're my family.
Cold.
I'd do anything for you. I'm proud of you. I've had the time of my life with you.
Darkness.
Why aren't you here?
Repeat.
Hell. The cycle was hell—he had been denied Avalon. Perhaps, it was his failure that caused that denial—the fact that he had died before destiny could be completed and it made all of his sins outweigh everything else.
He has been driven to madness.
It takes him a while to realize that the cycle of death has ended, and he is backed against the tree—the bark rough against his blood-crusted hands. The blood had dried, and it is gritted under his fingernails. Merlin can feel the twinges of hysteria clawing up his throat, the insanity that threatens to batter the edges of his mind to pieces—picking at those edges and smashing until the cracks splinter across the center. He can feel the tears slipping silently down his cheeks, though his ears continue to ring.
The world is left muted, and Merlin gasped for air—there would never be enough air filling his lungs, the realization comes dimly, almost a detached note forming in his mind. Merlin gripped his throat, feeling the grizzly cut against his fingers and realized that it had—finally—stopped bleeding. Now, all of the blood that is on him and around him is drying and caking. And, when his eyes refocus on his surroundings—the sun-dappled forest resplendent and idyllic and a horridly ironic scene—he can see that there is so much of it.
It's everywhere.
On his shirt and brown overcoat, covering his neckerchief. Staining and clumping together the blades of green grass. It's caked all over his hands. It's on his jaw. On his face. On the tops of his boots. There's so much of it, and he can't understand how it all stemmed from his slit throat. Or maybe, his mind rescinded the thought, he can't understand how it all stemmed from his slit throat coupled with him still being alive to observe it.
And he is alive—as alive as he has ever been. The air tasted like copper and Merlin swallowed roughly, wincing at the pull on his throat that the action caused. The dirt his hands curled around is present—adding to the crusted blood. Merlin closed his eyes, his thoughts flying everywhere—he is thankful that he is somehow, miraculously, alive, he is terrified that it's only a moment of reprieve before it starts again, he can feel the cold, even still.
But, it's a different sort of cold.
It's not the cold brought on by numbness. But, the cold brought on by the dull realization that he has suffered something incomprehensible and trying to reconcile all of the broken pieces. The cold of being alone—so, dreadfully alone.
Gods, he died alone.
And, he kept dying alone.
The twin thoughts are quickly banished to the back of his mind for later dissection because Merlin can't handle continuing down that path in his mind—it is riddled with madness and insanity, and he needed to remain composed. He opened his eyes and angled his head backwards, peering up at the tree-tops and skin through them with burning eyes. Merlin bit his lip as he tried, vainly, to keep the tears from slipping out of the corners of his eyes and to steady his trembling body.
His hands are practically vibrating—their shaking so badly, filled with tremors. His teeth chattered and he wrapped his arms around himself tightly—the thought of keeping himself together replacing the thought of put pressure on the wound. Merlin distantly thought that he should probably get-up—that it must have been days from the state of the dried blood and there is doubtlessly someone looking for him and if they find him like this—
Merlin shuddered at the thought of being found so vulnerable. So raw and filled with pain. It wasn't that he didn't trust others to stand by him. But, that he didn't want them to witness him like this to begin with.
Eyes sliding closed, he promised himself that he would get up. He would get up and return to Camelot and—he didn't know how to explain the blood covering him. He didn't know how to even begin explaining that. Merlin racked his mind for a plausible explanation, but turned up nothing—how could he explain disappearing for days and returning covered from head-to-toe in his own blood? It was too red-colored to be mistaken for dirt, even though—from a distance, he supposed it could be considered dark enough.
Merlin's broken from his considerations and half-baked plans of returning to Camelot—he supposed he could search his mind further for a spell that would clean the blood from him—and then grinning and pretending everything's alright by movement. Instinctively, he tenses, not opening his eyes, a deep-rooted fear that the bandits have returned—that they have realized that he's alive after they near separated his head from the rest of his body and have come back to finish the task.
His mind reformed new plans—plans of running as fast as his legs can take him—but they all come to a screeching halt when there is a strangled scream. The sound is filled with pain and horror and potent fear.
"Merlin!" His plans fall apart, and he realized that it wasn't some returning bandit—they hadn't even known his name, and he is reminded bitterly of that fact. It's Gwaine. Gwaine is next to him, falling to his knees with a loud crash and rustle of clothes, the flash of silver and red that Merlin could see through slitted eyes—he feels simply too exhausted to open his eyes. Once he does, he has to pretend everything's alright.
When it's not.
It's not alright. He died. He died alone and cold and he laid there for what he suspected to be days, constantly in a state of dying and no one had found him—no one held him or gave him those final moments of warmth to share his last thoughts.
Another voice joined Gwaine, and the horror dripped from the newly spoken words. "No. No. No. Gods, please, no. " Lancelot. Lancelot and Gwaine—two of the people Merlin had thought of as he was dying—arriving as though summoned by magic. Merlin bitterly thought that it was too late for them to show up, that they had showed up too late and why weren't they there as he gurgled on his own blood—inwardly begging for more time. The last thought made the bitterness dissipate as he had been given a gift—more time.
But, at what cost?
At what cost had he been given more time? The cost of his mind? The cost of his sanity? The price of being given more time was too heavy—it was too much for him to pay and he only realized that after being given it.
Perhaps, that made him ungrateful. People always beg for more time to do the things they want—but, this entire situation doesn't feel like anything close to being normal. Merlin kept his eyes closed as he mulled that over—knowing that once he opened them, he would have to face the reality of what happened to him. Maybe Gwaine wouldn't believe him if he said that he had kept feeling his heart stop in his chest, but Lancelot might. Gaius might. And that—that small might meant that Merlin would have to find answers.
He wasn't sure that he wanted answers.
Merlin felt overwhelmed and tears slid down his face, unable to be held back anymore. Twin tears were followed by more that kept coming and he could hear a half-sob as he is gathered in warm arms and Merlin's face is pressed against Gwaine's cloak-covered shoulder. The pieces of himself feel so scattered, scattered in every drop of blood that stained the clearing—a distant part of his mind wondered if there would ever be enough of a downpour to wash it all away.
Tears drip on his neck, Gwaine sobbed as he clung tightly to Merlin and Merlin can feel his own tears falling, clinging tightly to Gwaine as he fell apart. Another presence joined their crumpled forms against the tree and Lancelot leaned forward to hold them both—his chin resting atop Merlin's head as he squeezed them tightly to him. "Bloody hell. Bloody hell. Bloody hell." Gwaine cursed foully, the words slipping from him in increasing desperation. He grabbed the back of Merlin's neck, fingers warm, "Gods, what the hell happened, Merls?" Gwaine demanded, words soaked in anger and righteousness.
Merlin wrapped his fingers around the front of Gwaine's chainmail and squeezed it tightly, unable to summon the words to his mouth. He can picture the scene they had stumbled upon—all of the blood staining the floor and a pale, unmoving Merlin slumped against a tree with blood covering him. "We should—we should get back to Camelot." Lancelot spoke after another minute, voice rumbling and crackling with the emotion he tried to keep tampered to balance out the more emotionally-volatile Gwaine.
Gwaine nodded after a minute and Merlin pictured that he had been about to protest the move, but Lancelot had given him a look. Gwaine hooked his fingers under Merlin's armpits and moved to rise, but Merlin slumped against him—the man unprepared for the complete weight falling against his front. "Hey. Hey. I've got you." Gwaine leaned forward to whisper the words privately to Merlin as the youth crumpled in his arms, renewed sobs slipping with increasing rawness from his throat.
He is aware of the glances that Gwaine and Lancelot exchange over his head—both looking worried, with Gwaine filled with angry protectiveness. Merlin finally picked his head from Gwaine's shoulder and tried to refocus his vision—the world felt like it was spinning, the colors and images distorted, as though he is looking at them through a filmy layer. Lancelot is casting a calculating and thoughtful look around the clearing, doubtlessly registering the items left behind that the bandits deemed unnecessary.
"We need to get the hell out of here." Gwaine spoke insistently, dragging Lancelot's gaze back to him and Merlin gathered from his expression alone that the knight had come to the right conclusion about what happened to Merlin. His eyes are dark with the knowledge when Merlin focused on his face after making a few attempts to.
Lancelot nodded, "Agreed." He moved forward slowly, cautiously. A part of Merlin is annoyed at the caution the knight takes when approaching him, but another part is grateful that Lancelot recognized that Merlin is barely holding it together and sudden movement might upset the tentative balance he has found. "Can you walk, Merlin?" Lancelot laid a hand on Merlin's shoulder, squeezing lightly as his eyes search Merlin's face.
Merlin closed his eyes. "I—I—I do—don't th—thin—think I—I c—c—can." The words are a stammer, and he can feel his entire body trembling with the effort of standing upright. His legs feel useless underneath him, like all of the muscles have atrophied inside of them. "L—Lan—Lance—" His voice tapered off ineffectually and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
Gwaine murmured something that Merlin can't hear but then, Merlin found that there was an arm suddenly pressing against the underside of his knees and he is picked up by Gwaine. "He's too light." Gwaine muttered to Lancelot, sounding contrite. His vision swam in front of Merlin's unfocused gaze, panic dripping from the expression. "Should he be this light, Lance?" He sounded worried, worried, and distant and Merlin realized that it wasn't the knight moving away from him—but the fact that his ears are starting to ring again.
It terrified him, the fact that his ears were starting to ring. Darkly, Merlin mused that he is probably going to be terrified of simple things for a while—the coldness being a primary thing that would remind him of the entire ordeal.
Fingers pressed against his forehead and Merlin's eyes rolled as he tried to pinpoint where they came from—it was probably Lancelot; a distant part of his mind answered the question. "Gaius will know more." Lancelot finally answered Gwaine, voice sounding far away. They continued speaking, but Merlin felt his focus sliding away and his eyes sliding closed. The darkness isn't as cold as he thought it might be, which he supposed is better because he knew he wasn't dying anymore.
"His eyes are closed." Gwaine's voice suddenly is louder and a finger poked Merlin's face. "Merlin, hey, you can't fall asleep, alright? Please, just don't fall asleep." The knight continued speaking, the words turned pleading when compared against the first thing he said.
Lancelot spoke next. "It's the blood-loss. He's lost too much blood." It's the first they've said anything about the blood, or maybe not—as Merlin didn't know what they said when he was too delirious to focus. "Damn it all to hell—we should have brought the horses." The knight added, sounding incredibly frustrated.
Gwaine hummed in agreement. "I told you we should haven't followed the princess's orders to be inconspicuous." He informed the other knight in a falsely dry voice, attempting to maintain his humor—thought the attempt fell flat.
Lancelot paled. "I do not want to be the one to explain this to him." He murmured.
Gwaine shrugged, the movement jostling Merlin and the youth felt the jerk of motion keenly moving his throat and grimaced as his hands gripped his throat, putting pressure on a wound that had already clotted. "It might not require much of an explanation." Gwaine's voice sounded incredibly dark. The knight closed his eyes, seeming as though he were trying to keep his temper in check. "I swear to you, I will find those swine and put them through the hell they forced Merlin to endure tenfold." He stated in a serious voice that was uncommon on the normally incorrigible knight.
"That is a hunt I will gladly follow you on, Gwaine." Lancelot agreed without pause. Merlin felt a seed of warmth taking root in his chest, replacing the bitterness of dying alone—he didn't think he would ever forget the worthless feeling that wrapped itself around him as he died an insurmountable number of times. "Brace yourself, Gwaine. We're about to break the tree-line." Lancelot warned.
It was a warning that Merlin also appreciated, though he felt dazed and exhausted—both physically and emotionally. He could see the picture they made in his mind's eye, two cloaked knights decorated in Pendragon-red cloak and silver chainmail returning to the citadel with the king's manservant covered in his own blood. He thought of demanding to be set on his feet—proving that he stilled lived—but he found himself unready for the task, his mind swimming too frantically and a headache behind his eyes alerting him to the tears building.
When they entered, there was initially the everyday chatter of the lower-town, but it soon became hushed and Merlin distantly saw the crowd parting and felt the gazes assessing him—the horror on the faces around him, the mothers pulling their children away, the fathers watching with sad eyes, the children watching with wide, uncomprehending eyes. Merlin knew that some recognized him—he had lived in Camelot for nearly six years, he had helped out in the lower town and accepted no payment.
And now—now those same people probably think he is dead. The image he makes is that of a dead man—one that is lifeless, and it is like the knights that return, solemn and silent in their precession with the bodies of their comrades to given them a proper send-off.
"We need a clear-path." Lancelot suddenly shouted. The knight's words are soaked in desperation, the plea parting the crowd that had converged in front of them to pay their respects. "And, someone, please hurry in front of us to fetch Gaius." He ordered.
One of the townspeople spoke then. "Gods above, is he still alive?" His voice is surprised and edged in incredulity. Merlin felt overwhelmed, the people feel like a thick presence at the fringes of his mind, and he can feel the need of space nearly overpowering him. He managed to stall the words that want to escape, letting them die on his tongue, instead staring blankly at the part of the sky he can see above him. He had died under the same sky, his mind noted, and it is a constant that he is torn between appreciating and loathing.
Gwaine nodded. "Aye. But, he has lost a lot of blood." His lips are thinned when Merlin's gaze focused on him. The knight darted a quick look down at Merlin and squeezed him tightly when he spotted that Merlin's gaze was on him. "He needs Gaius, immediately." Gwaine's voice broke on the last word.
The man in front of them nodded. "Then god-speed." He took a step back as Gwaine hurried past them, trailed quickly by Lancelot—who is giving the other townspeople his gratitude in words while Gwaine moved quicker.
"We're almost there, Merls." Gwaine promised. The knight attempted a smile, though it fell flat. "I'm so sorry. Gods, forgive me—forgive me." Gwaine pleaded, the words a near-whisper and filled with self-loathing. Merlin blinked, a part of him initially surprised that the knight thought that there was any forgiveness to beg for before remembering the bitterness of his thoughts when he thought of dying alone—unlooked for, unremarkable, uncared for.
His thoughts in those moments had petered out into nothing—making his own worth seem like nothing. Merlin thought of offering a litany of reassurances—throwing up a pretense that it didn't hurt that he had felt so unloved and uncared for—but the words wouldn't come and instead he closed his eyes and tried to keep the tears from falling.
Gwaine seemed to think it meant something else and roughly jerked him. "Merlin, wait, you can't—stay awake, please." The knight entreated. Merlin's eyelids slid halfway open, the word a mess of mixing colors and the shapes considered fuzzy at best. He could barely feel the front of Gwaine's cloak he had fisted in his blood-stained hands or hear the voices of members of nobility in the citadel courtyard.
In the next few minutes Merlin could figure what would happen—whoever had been sent ahead would retrieve Gaius and he would be brought to the private chambers of his mentor to be treated. Merlin figured that Gwaine would probably be the one to bring him and the knight would be stubborn when ordered to release him—but it seemed simplistic enough. Merlin's eyes rolled into his sockets as he relaxed—there was little point in staying awake, despite what Gwaine and Lancelot seemed to think, as he was home, and Gaius was there, and Merlin trusted Gaius more than anyone to know how to patch him up.
A sound that could be described as a hoarse howl—something that was a haunting mix of deepest sorrow and rage; a sob and a shout—startled Merlin from his thoughts. It was something indescribable and Merlin tried to pry open his eyes so that he could see where the sound had been emitted. His first thought was that it might be some sort of magical creature—and though, Merlin would be useless when defending them against one, he couldn't just lay there while people were in danger. Something like that wasn't in his nature.
He tensed—mind searching itself for creatures that sounded so, so filled with grievous rage. Then, another thought reminded him that it simply couldn't be a creature like that as it wasn't followed by the townspeople and court screaming or the smattering of multiple footsteps pounding against the cobblestone. Instead, it was one set charging towards him and Gwaine, "Oh gods." The words were a hoarse whisper, though they carried in the wind. "What the hell happened? Oh gods, Merlin. No, no, no, no, no."
Merlin recognized the voice after a few heartbeats, when fingers brushed against his face—initially he jerked away from the contact before his mind registered sword-callused hands and cool rings. Arthur. "We found him like this." Gwaine answered, a tinge of impatience in his voice—his thoughts doubtlessly on getting Merlin swiftly to Gaius and Arthur in the way of that.
Arthur's hands retreated after a moment and Merlin imagined that the king was folding them behind his back and visibly restraining himself. "How long has he been like this?" Arthur queried; his voice too emotional for him to feign disinterest.
Gwaine shrugged, "I don't know." He answered simply. "Are you going to move out of the way, princess, or should I run you over?" The knight questioned without a care to propriety. Merlin gathered that the knight must be severely irate—as they had been stopped first by people in the lower town and then by the king, himself and Gwaine's thoughts were of a simple focus. The same focus that Merlin's thoughts had been in, when he pressed his fingers against the grotesque mark and thought that he would be able to drag himself to Camelot alone.
"There's no need for that." Gaius intercepted smoothly. In a swish of his own trademark robes in their dull coloring, the court physician appeared. Merlin felt a withered hand press against his face—checking his temperature and absently wiping at the blood crusted against his jaw. "Merlin, can you hear me?" His mentor queried, fingers swiftly carding through his hair.
Merlin finally succeeded in prying his eyes open, crust clinging to his eyelashes. He blinked a few times as the face of his father-figure came into focus. His throat felt like it had been stuffed with chainmail and he grimaced.
Gaius seemed appeased momentarily. "Let's get him to my chambers, he's going to want some more privacy." Gaius declared, practically reading Merlin's mind. Merlin lost his grip on consciousness once Gwaine started moving again, though his fingers remained tightly gripping Gwaine's cloak as though the fabric were a lifeline.
The scent of herbs was thick and poignant, settling a filmy layer in his throat as though he could almost taste them on his tongue, as Merlin clawed his way back to consciousness. The world felt increasingly fuzzy—the colors all mixed together like splotches of paint scattered around on a canvas—and his tongue was leaden in his mouth as he swallowed convulsively. A burning sensation trailed along his throat at the movement and Merlin felt a raw, guttural sound escape his throat.
The noise seemed to alert whoever was at his side and he found the rim of a cracked mug pressed against his cracked lips and words whispered in a soothing voice in his ear. Merlin welcomed the cool liquid after realizing that it wasn't some foul-tasting potion and instead was cold water, fresh from the well. Once he finished drinking, the person pulled the cup away and their fingers resumed carding through his hair. Merlin relaxed against the movement as he blinked the crust from his eyes.
Within a few heartbeats, he almost felt lulled to sleep—warm and safe, but then his entire body shuddered, and a whimper clawed its way free from his throat. It pressed against his neck, and he could feel tears sliding from the corners of his eyes and into his hair.
"Shhhh. It's alright, Merls. It's alright." Someone hummed, leaning close to him and Merlin felt the light press of long hair of a head bowed over him and his head pillowed in someone's lap. Guinevere slid easily and with practice onto the bed, her back against the uncomfortable wall—and if she felt any discomfiture with the position, she showed no sign perceivable sign of it.
She continued, humming a few nonsensical platitudes and Merlin found himself relaxing even further. He welcomed the warmth, though there were tingles of deep-rooted, tendrils of coldness etching along his bones that he refused to acknowledge.
A different set of fingers were carding soothingly through the dampened strands of hair—at some point they had washed his hair along with scrubbing at his skin instead of just changing his clothes and Merlin was momentarily grateful that he didn't remember that as he imagined it to be a cold experience and he was sure it would remind him of moments better left forgotten. If only—if only his mind would cease reconjuring those moments and instead let them recede into nothingness.
"—manservant. And, he's absolutely dull. Gods, Merlin, you should have heard him today—he made some of the worst jokes my ears have had the misfortune of healing, though he is rather great at bring meals on time. Though, I suppose those meals are less enjoyable without the proper entertainment of the Court Fool." Arthur was speaking, his voice a soothing sound—ironic when considering the legger of complaints he was formulating. His voice then lowered, losing the good humor. "It's strange, I didn't think that George cared much for anything, but he seemed concerned for you. So was Lord Elijah and his son. It seems most of my court is concerned for you, if I'm being honest—" The king's voice tapered off.
Merlin inwardly mused that it might have been the longest he had heard Arthur talk—the man seemed to be speaking all in one breath, as though he were rambling. Though, Merlin was normally one that was left rambling, and the transition of normalcy was something Merlin lingered on momentarily.
He thought of responding—but he couldn't think of what to say. And—and if he alerted Arthur to the fact that he was awake, he would have to explain what had happened to him and Merlin's entire spirit recoiled at the thought of doing so. He didn't want to explain what had been done—what he had endured, how it felt to die over and over and over and over and over and over and over.
So, Merlin kept quiet—his eyes closed as he listened to Arthur's voice as it rose and fell as the king continued speaking. Arthur was telling inane stories—things he had seen in the day to day, how their friends were behaving without him, the isolated nobles that seemed to reemerge if only to check on him.
When Merlin tuned back into the one-sided conversation, he had part of a mind to be offended. "You know, I could go a few more days with a exemplary servant—my bath has never been more the right temperature or my chambers cleaner or my armor so shiny it could blind a man." Arthur rattled off pompously, before the king deflated. "But, you know I'm lying. You've been like this for days—and—and, gods, you—when I saw you in Gwaine's arms near-dead covered in all—in all of that—that blood. I'll never unsee that, old friend, it will haunt me—for the rest of my days." The king's voice cracked and broke on the words and his expression pained when Merlin cracked his eyes open to see Arthur's had his own closed.
Merlin felt tears crawl from the edges of his eyes and disappear into his hair at the same time as he felt liquid dripping onto his forehead and saw the king's mask falter—the state of sorrow potent and reminding Merlin of when he heard the king releasing a guttural shout. He swallowed and reached up to tap the pads of his fingers against Arthur's face. "Hey." His voice was a hoarse whisper and his neck twinged unfavorably for the movement of speaking.
Saying the greeting aloud sapped him of much of his strength, though he refused to close his eyes when he saw Arthur open his own. The king looked incredibly relieved, before it was followed by slightly embarrassment. "Of course, you have to wake up the moment—" Arthur's voice tapered off ineffectually. He swallowed and seemed to change his mind. "If you ever scare me like that again, I'll throw you in the stocks, Merlin. I swear, I will." He warned and Merlin gathered that he wasn't going to carry through on that threat but was making it for the point of doing so.
Merlin arched an eyebrow. "No mucking out the stables, then." His voice was hoarse with disuse, and he grimaced at the pull on his throat, one hand instinctively pressing against the wound. It triggered a burning sensation and Merlin felt the corners of his mind turn outwards and into that perverse darkness.
"Who said anything about that not being your responsibility?" Arthur declared. "You will, of course, be mucking out the stables three times a day everyday for the next ten years." He continued, seeming rather pleased with himself. Merlin imagined that the king wanted to cross his arms to support that self-righteousness in a way that spoke more of petulance and spoiled-ness than anything, but Arthur was still absently carding his ringed fingers through Merlin's damp hair.
Merlin rolled his eyes. "And back to the clearing, I go, then." The words were a cynical joke, but it did not sit well with Arthur for the king's eyes lost whatever light they held as one hand gripped Merlin's shoulder tightly.
His jaw clenched and a muscle feathered in his cheek. "Don't ever say anything like that again. I mean it, Merlin." Arthur warned. His expression was nearly livid and the image the king made reminded Merlin of vengeful creatures and the messiness of the blonde head of hair reminded him of a lion.
"I was joking." Merlin informed him.
Arthur shook his head vehemently. "I don't care." He spoke in a louder tone of voice while Merlin's voice had been a mere whisper of a sound. "Don't even try to turn this into some sort of joke—because it's not one, damn it Merlin. You nearly died. Someone slit your throat and you nearly died and—" Arthur trailed off, eyes luminescent before he closed them and visibly attempted to regain his composure.
Merlin closed his eyes as well. "I'm sorry you had to see that, Arthur." He reopened his eyes—though he felt more wrong-footed by the minute as Arthur's expression hardened at the apology that had seemed right in the moment, but hindsight revealed a sourness to Arthur's mood as a result and the idea seemed wrong now.
Another muscle feathered in Arthur's cheek as his teeth gritted before he visibly worked to unclench his jaw. "Don't ever try to hide an injury like that from me." Arthur seemed nearly unhinged in his rage at the prospect and Merlin wisely kept his mouth shut.
He would not mention that he had already hidden injuries nearly identical to having his throat slit that should have premeditated his death, though it was the first thing that popped into his mind. Merlin decided a subject-change would be prudent after a few more heartbeats passed in tense silence. "I'm surprised that the court let their king sit here for so long—don't you have king-y things to be doing?" Merlin arched an eyebrow.
Stubborn-ness greeted him in response. "Of course, I do." Arthur answered.
Merlin's eyebrow raised higher. "Then, why are you lazing about?"
Arthur's mouth dropped open. "I'm the one lazing about." He flicked Merlin's ear in retaliation for the comment. "You're the one who has been sleeping here for days." Arthur countered.
He hardly recalled the brief stints of consciousness during those days. Merlin thinned his lips at the only memory staining his recollection—the coldness he felt, so eerily reminiscent of what he felt as he was dying. Something must have passed along his features because Arthur suddenly angled his head downwards and his lips pursed.
"What is it?" Arthur queried. "And don't you—"
"It's nothing." Merlin interjected.
"—dare say it's nothing, Merlin." Arthur finished, disregarding the assertion with an expression of brief smugness at predicting the response, but overall consternation. "Tell me, what's going through your mind." He insisted, speaking in a much softer tone.
Merlin shrugged. "The things going through my mind are the thoughts of a fool, sire." He answered impertinently and ambiguously.
Arthur scowled. "That's not an answer."
Merlin offered a smile that was more of a sarcastic, wise-embittered smile. "It was an answer. Just not one that you liked." He informed the monarch, whose only response was to thin his lips, cross his arms, and look down at Merlin in a manner akin to the one he used all of those years ago when Merlin and he were looking for Balinor. The name brought with it a hint of pain, though Merlin had learned to disguise the grief he felt for Balinor.
Arthur sighed through his nose. "Stop pretending to be mysterious and just tell me." His voice started in a tone Merlin considered pratly but ended in one that was fond. Merlin contemplated the king before him, he remained unsure of whether he wanted to share all of those horrid thoughts he had felt—never-mind the fact that Arthur wouldn't be one of the ones to believe that he had died.
Merlin closed his eyes. "I just felt cold for a second, is all, sire." He answered quietly.
Arthur looked alarmed when Merlin opened his eyes, pressing the back of his hand against Merlin's forehead and pursing his lips as he checked for fever. "You might have a fever—perhaps I can get Gaius." The king seemed to be prepping himself to move and relinquish his hold on Merlin.
"But I don't, do I?" Merlin challenged with a brief uptilt of his lips. "You feel no fever brewing underneath my skin, do you?" Merlin continued as Arthur bit his lip and nodded his assent.
The king's eyes were conflicted. "It's summer, Merlin. You shouldn't feel cold."
Merlin appreciated the concern, but he knew it was pointless. It wasn't a physical coldness attributed to the weather that he felt but a deep-rooted one that he normally associated with fear and memories of horrors best left forgotten. "It's not like that, dollophead." Merlin swallowed. He closed his eyes, "I think it's more like the residual coldness of—of what happened." He swallowed once more.
"Dying." Arthur breathed, understanding and comprehension lighting his expression when Merlin reopened his eyes to observe his king. Merlin locked eyes with Arthur—knowing that the king could partially understand how it felt to be dying, but Merlin doubted he could ever understand the full extent of the horrors Merlin had been subjected to. The hell his mind had been confined to.
It wasn't something he would wish on anyone. "I—I felt my heart stop, Arthur." Merlin admitted. "And maybe—maybe it was in my head. Maybe it didn't happen at all, though it sure as hell felt like it." He hastily tacked on, knowing that Arthur would not believe that his heart had completely stopped—several times. "But, I could have sworn I felt it and it was—it was hell. And all I could think of was whether or not I told the people I cared for how much I cared about them and begging for someone—anyone to just hold me. But—but no one did. And—and the bandits, whoever they are, they didn't even know my name and it was like. It was like I was nothing. Like my worth was nothing." Merlin could almost see the blurred trees swirling above his head and he pressed his fingers to his throat.
Arthur's grip was tight on him, nearly-grounding. "You're never leaving the citadel without one of us—you attract too much trouble." Arthur spoke after a moment, though Merlin could scarcely focus on the words—as lost in the past few days as he was.
"I didn't even remember if I thanked Gaius for being a father to me. If I had told Lancelot and Gwaine that they were like brothers to me. If I had told Gwen that she was my sister in all but blood. If I had told Leon, Elyan, or Percival that they were also my family. If I had thanked my mother for raising me. Or told you how proud I am of the king you are." Merlin continued, the words a low murmur.
A few tears slipped free from the confines of Arthur's eyes. "Those are things you don't need to say. We know them. We know how much you love us." Arthur spoke quietly.
Merlin blinked, tears in his eyes. "And, I'm sorry. I know how much you all care for me—you wouldn't be here if you didn't. And, afterwards—I—I was so hurt. I felt so abandoned Arthur, so dreadfully alone and cold. And it kept feeling like I was dying, over and over again it kept feeling like my heart was stopping in my chest and it kept going—this endless cycle—over and over and over and over and over and over again. Again, and again and again. And—it wouldn't stop." Merlin felt a hoarse sob escape his throat as he curled on his side—those same feelings coursing through him, phantoms of the ones he felt in those moments.
Perhaps, his mind considered, he was revealing too much. He was revealing too much of what happened and maybe Arthur would suspect that it wasn't just a feeling or something horrid that his mind conjured, but that it had actually happened.
Though, he had never been good at pasting his mask back together when it was so thoroughly cracked. "It felt like I was in hell—like I'd been denied the chance to go to Avalon and I was in hell." Merlin finished in between the sobs that rippled through him, raw and hoarse and filled with sorrow and riddled with the beginnings of insanity.
"Then it wasn't real." Arthur murmured. "Because you are the last person I can think of that would deserve that kind of hell—you are the last person who would ever deserve to go to hell, Merlin."
The words were touching and finally managed to pull Merlin away from the infinite sorrow stretching under his skin. He tilted his head as he regarded his king. "Do you truly believe that?" He queried in a quiet, almost child-like voice.
Arthur nodded, "Of course, I do." There was no more that they said for the rest of the night, though the king did resume carding his sword-callused fingers through Merlin's hair to soothe and comfort and Merlin fell asleep once more.
Perhaps, things would have remained on the uprise—had Merlin not woken with a fever a few mornings later. The fever brought with it vivid hallucinations of being left to die and there was little anyone could say to soothe his mind when he kept feeling his heart stop in his chest. The fever manipulated the memory—twisting it into him not being alone but left anyways to die as the people he cherished refused to hold him.
The fever made it constantly feel like he was cold—his body freezing—and he found himself terrified to fall asleep for the fear that he would awaken and the cycle of dying—burning, desperation, grief, coldness, darkness, repeat—would start anew. And his lucid moments were nearly overwhelmed by his broken sobs—though they were considerably softened by there always being someone there to rock him back and forth and whisper soothing litanies into his ear.
Sometimes it was Gwen. Sometimes it was Arthur. Sometimes, Gwaine. Sometimes, Lancelot. Even his mother made a rare appearance—someone having doubtlessly summoned her when they realized what had happened and knowing he needed the comforting embrace of the woman who had always held him through the worst of his childhood.
Though, there were darker times—times when he raged at the person for not being there. He screamed at them: how could you leave me? You left me. You left me alone. And it was so cold. And how could you do that to me? Why didn't you love me enough? Why didn't you care enough?
With the fever fleeing his system, it was those moments that Merlin regretted the most. He regretted leveling blame at his forged family because they hadn't known and there was nothing in this world that should have suggested that they should have. He was known for disappearing and reappearing and being perfectly fine—why would they expect a difference in this time? And, it had always been good that they didn't follow him where he went, otherwise they would potentially be following him into facing off against whatever foe and it could put their lives at risk.
Merlin sighed as he unwrapped himself from the thick wool blanket that was normally stowed in the cupboard downstairs and began the mundane task of dressing himself. His previous outfit: the blue neckerchief, red tunic, dark trousers, and brown overcoat, had been completely discarded—appropriate as it had been ruined beyond repair. Merlin regarded his organized cupboard—doubtlessly something either his mother had done, or Gwen had—with a blank expression for a moment.
He felt somewhat numb in the aftermath of it all. Merlin hadn't had the chance to consult with Gaius about what had happened—much less manage the task of sneaking out to go visit Kilgarrah. The Great Dragon would doubtlessly have more of an inkling of what happened than Merlin did, though the dragonlord knew that he would not like those answers instinctively—which he supposed meant that some part of his mind had come to those answers, but it was sheer willpower that kept them from being listened to an accepted.
Wrapping his arms around himself, Merlin descended the staircase into the main chambers—Gaius was busying himself with setting breakfast and Hunith was seated at the table. His mother regarded him with a warm smile, wrapping him in a swift hug in greeting. "Good morning, son." She pressed a light kiss against his temple, her eyes concerned as she took a step back to catalogue his reactions. "You look like you're feeling better."
Merlin offered a shrug. "I guess so." He glanced towards Gaius. "Good morning." Merlin offered the greeting after another second, electing to take his seat at the table. It winded him more than he liked doing the most basic, mundane things, and he momentarily thinned his lips at the dark thoughts 'helpfully' voicing themselves in the back of his mind.
"I made your favorite." Gaius placed a bowl of porridge in front of him, though Merlin could see that a bit of honey had been added as he favored to improve the taste. His mentor brushed Merlin's bangs aside to feel his temperature. "Still a bit too warm for my liking." Gaius took his seat as he spooned a bite of porridge into his mouth.
Merlin knew that Gaius would prefer it if he spent the day recovering, but Merlin had been in much of the same state of recovery for almost three weeks and he did want to get back to his job. Though it had been reassured in no uncertain terms that he would still have a job when he was ready, he wanted to get back to normalcy sooner rather than later. "I truly do feel better, Gaius. Better enough to go into work." Merlin stirred the porridge without eating a bite as he anticipated Gaius's response.
His mentor looked unconvinced and exchanged a glance with Hunith. "I don't know, my boy." Gaius spoke slowly and skeptically. He pointed with his spoon at Merlin's bowl and Merlin rolled his eyes but complied with the unspoken order.
The youth was not above begging. "Please, Gaius. I need to get back into some sort of normal." He shuddered, "I can't just stay here all day with the same thoughts, please." In his first months as manservant to the king, he had never thought that he would not be enjoying a vacation from his job but his lack of working also meant that he wasn't around his friends as much. They had dropped in, but not so much recently after feverish Merlin had blamed them and he felt exceedingly guilty for his harsh words.
Even more so because they were thoughts that he had had in regard to dying alone—but they were not ones that deserved to ever be given voice. "My boy, I'm just not sure that you're ready to fully get back into working. Don't think I didn't notice how quickly you sat down." Gaius spoke the last part quickly, overriding Merlin's attempt at protesting.
Biting his tongue, Merlin contemplated another approach. "He's right, Merlin." Mother contributed to the conversation. "Though, perhaps, he could return to a lighter workload." She added pointedly to Gaius, giving Merlin a spot of hope. She flicked her gaze to him, showing that she understood why exactly Merlin needed to venture outside of the chambers to talk to his friends—to make amends for the things he said.
He glanced hopefully at Gaius, who seemed to be considering it. "Alright." Gaius drawled the word. "On the condition that you will come to me immediately when you start feeling terrible—I mean it, Merlin. If you do not swear to come to me, then you can spend the day in your room, recovering." Gaius waved a finger in Merlin's face.
Merlin immediately agreed. "I swear to come to you." He thought of crossing his fingers behind his back, but his mother was on one side and Gaius on the other and the action might make Gaius rescind the permission.
Gaius searched his eyes for any sign of a lie and Merlin made sure to meet his gaze unflinchingly. His mentor finally nodded, a hint of a smile forming on his lips. "Good. Now, finish your breakfast. It's almost time for the king to be brought his breakfast." Gaius pointed once more to the bowl of porridge sitting in front of Merlin. Merlin eyed it, not feeling entirely hungry, but spooning some into his mouth nevertheless and offering a partially cheeky grin to his mentor once he swallowed.
Adjusting his arms underneath the tray, Merlin could feel the warmth through his sleeves as the steam wafted up to his nose, though the food in his arms made him feel slightly nauseous rather than starved as it used to. He exhaled minimally, closing his eyes, and angling his head backwards as he thought about the oddity of picking up the king's meal. It seemed that everyone he ran into knew what had happened to him and he had one too many people crying over him, though some part of him did appreciate that the incredibly strict woman that ran the kitchen like a battlefield had given him a doughy pastry sprinkled with sugar.
Merlin had taken a few bites for her sake, but he found himself not entirely ravenous for more—his appetite diminished by nerves. He didn't know what to say and felt incredibly awkward and stinted as he thought about the horrid things he had screamed at the people he cared about. Merlin took another deep breath before glancing quickly down the hall to check if anyone was around before opening the door with a swift goldening of his eye that didn't appear to be an outward display of magic.
As he nudged the door closed with his boot, he felt a seed of fondness forming in his chest when he spotted Arthur spread-eagled on the bed with his face buried in his pillow—Gwen had left earlier than her husband to spend her morning with a few of the ladies of the court for early-morning tea. Merlin gently set the tray on the table and threw open the curtains with a flourish, one hand absently toying with the permanent mark on his throat—it had left behind a scar, though the mark was covered by his neckerchief.
An incredibly wry part of him mused that it was a good thing he wore neckerchiefs as often as he did because it provided a decent cover for the new addition to his scars. Merlin pursed his lips at the thought, before refocusing on the task of waking up Arthur. He considered shouting at the top of his lungs as customary for him, but, though he could manage a normal volume—it was difficult to go even a notch above the normal volume.
Wringing his hands nervously, he pasted a bright grin on his face and resolved to grin and bear it. "Let's have you lazy daisy." Merlin shouted at the top of his lungs and then gripped his throat, cringing and wheezing and making a mental to not do that for a while. He straightened as Arthur was roughly awakened and jumped up startled, toppling out of the bed. Merlin cringed when he landed with a spectacularly loud thud, taking a step closer. "Jumpy this morning, aren't we, sire?" He queried with a sideways smile.
Arthur groaned. "Merlin." He ran his fingers through his hair before he paused, and his eyes widened. His head shot up at an almost neck-break speed as his gaze shot to Merlin and he scrambled to his feet. Merlin opened his mouth to say something, but he was cut off by the king crossing to him in three large strides and grabbing the back of his neck. Arthur pressed Merlin's face into his shoulder and clung tightly to him.
"What happened to you saying never to hugs?" Merlin quipped, though he did return the embrace as Arthur squeezed the back of Merlin's blue tunic in one fist. He didn't have another brown overcoat to replace the one that had been destroyed, it was a strange thought to be focusing on when Arthur was squeezing him so tightly.
Arthur released his death grip after a moment. "And you're never telling anyone this happened." He declared, though one hand was still holding the back of Merlin's neck and the youth found himself relaxing instinctively into the embrace.
Merlin attempted to shrug. "Who would believe me, prat?" He retorted. Arthur finally released him after another few heartbeats and took a seat at the head of his table, surveying the steaming meal with contemplative eyes. Merlin glanced around the room and began to straighten up the bed—there wasn't much else to straighten as George had taken over in his absence—and pick out clothes for the monarch to wear that day. He had been stopped by the steward on the way to inform him of the things on the agenda for the day—Tristan had also seen fit to clasp Merlin's shoulder in a manner that was unusual for him.
He stifled a sigh, wondering when things would return to normal. The tears, the looks, all of it just left him grossly uncomfortable. "I thought that Gaius would not be letting you come back so soon." Arthur commented idly, spinning the fork with the same manner in between his fingers. His eyes flicked quickly in Merlin's direction and Merlin couldn't get a read on his expression.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "What? Were you enjoying George's brass jokes?" Merlin set the clothes out and fetched the boots from the wardrobe. He couldn't remember if Arthur might need the cloak, though it was doubtlessly too warm out for that. "Would you like your cloak today, sire?" Merlin spoke, speaking the title with the same affliction he always had.
Arthur pushed the plate of his breakfast away from him and Merlin raised both eyebrows. "You should be recovering, Merlin." Arthur finally declared. "You were burning up all of the day before yesterday." The king continued.
Merlin rolled his eyes. "I thought that my job was to serve you, not laze about." He crossed his arms, clicking his tongue wryly. "It's becoming much of a paradox, dollophead. I'm in bed and you want me working, but when I'm at work you want me recovering." He added another eye-roll for extra emphasis.
Arthur stood up, hands braced on the table and knuckles white. "Don't be an idiot, Merlin." He spoke with his jaw clenched tightly. Merlin watched as a muscle feathered in his cheek. "You need to be resting—you were just—" The king paused suddenly, eyes dropping from Merlin's face to his neckerchief covered neck and Merlin briefly thought that the king could see through the fabric to the scar underneath.
"Arthur, I'm alright." Merlin assured him, wringing his fingers.
A vein protruded in Arthur's forehead. "Alright? You're alright?" Arthur sounded derisive. Merlin took a step back, hands lifted placatingly, palms facing Arthur. He racked his brain for something in the statement that might upset Arthur.
He licked his suddenly dry lips. "Yes, Arthur. Gaius cleared me to come back to work." He didn't add that Gaius had only cleared him to come back to light work, knowing that that might upset Arthur even more. Cautiously, Merlin moved forward, placing a hand on Arthur's shoulder tentatively. "I'll be alright, dollophead." In an almost unconscious gesture, Merlin's fingers grazed his throat once more.
Arthur sighed, closing his eyes. He reopened them; one hand wrapped around the stem of his goblet. "I thought everything would be fine when we first spoke. But then you—then you got worse, and I thought you were going to die right bloody in front of me." He sounded torn up and Merlin felt even more guilty for the careless words he had screamed at them when he lacked a filter.
"I'm sorry." Merlin whispered. "I remember saying all of those awful things to you—to everyone—and, gods, I'm so sorry." He continued, speaking quickly and before Arthur could cut him off with the protest he could see forming in the king's mouth.
The king considered him for a minute. "You weren't wrong, Merlin." Arthur informed him, digging his nails into his palms. "We—I should have been there. I should have known that you were dying." There was so much guilt in the king's voice and Merlin felt even worse—an illogical part of him shared that sentiment, but the truth of the matter was that how could Arthur possibly have known? Arthur didn't have magic and he wasn't a seer—there was simply no way any of them could have anticipated something like that happening.
"How could you have possibly known something like that?" Merlin countered, raising his voice, and then cringing after a minute—fingers pressing against the healing scar on his throat as he tried to catch his breath. It was a difficult task, but he managed when Arthur put a hand on his shoulder in an effort to ground him.
Arthur cleared his throat. "You're—You're my little brother." He offered as though it were an explanation and Merlin felt his eyes widen as he stared at Arthur. The king had hardly managed to acknowledge him as a tentative friend and to know that Arthur considered him a brother in the same way that Merlin considered Arthur a brother. It meant a lot more to him than Arthur would ever guess. He then was reminded of the reason Arthur had to state this—it was only when Merlin was close to death that Arthur was ever able to show those emotions in words.
Merlin offered a smile. "And, you're my brother, too." He informed Arthur, sharing the sentiment. "But, that doesn't mean that it's possible for you to know something like that. No one—not even my brother—could have possibly thought that getting herbs would result in something like that." Merlin finished, squeezing Arthur's shoulder. As he said it, he mentally let go of all of the lingering bitterness—maybe some of it would remain in nightmares, but he wouldn't let it destroy him in his everyday life.
"Since when were you so wise?" Arthur quipped, his lips twisting into his usual, smug look—it was abnormally soft, though. Arthur apologizing and Merlin forgiving and then Merlin apologizing and Arthur forgiving.
He shrugged. "It's probably something I read in one of Gaius's books." Merlin answered simply and then they both exchanged one last glance and Merlin felt his fingers fall away from where they had been pressing against his neck as they picked up the pieces and fell into their usual banter.
Silvery moonlight bathed the streets of Camelot in a near-magical glow, though no one would dare to assign that adjective to the scene, as Merlin strolled idly towards the Rising Sun tavern. After spending the day in Arthur's company, though both the king and Gaius had prevented him from joining in with training and Gwen had spent the afternoon with him in the gardens instead. Merlin still had no idea how they knew that he couldn't stand to be around too many weapons at the moment, but he appreciated it nonetheless—though he did wish he had the chance to speak with the Roundtable Brotherhood at some point.
Hence why he was heading to the Rising Sun Tavern—Merlin had asked one of the maids if they had heard anything about them heading there after patrol and training and she had said they were—so that he could talk to them. The only reason Merlin had asked someone else—and not, say Gwen—was because he knew that Gaius would not approve of him heading out alone, but Merlin inwardly argued that he needed to make amends.
And now, he was sneaking out to go to a tavern of all things. Merlin bit back a smile as he thought of all the times Arthur had thought he spent every spare hour in the tavern and the fact that he was spending some of his spare time there. Something about it was just funny to him. Merlin exhaled as he approached the wooden building, easing the door open. The inside of the tavern had circular tables dotted around the room with chairs scattered around—most of the time, people snatched a chair from another table when there wasn't enough room.
Quite a few of the knights he recognized. Galahad. Bedivere. Tristan. Alexander. And a few others that Merlin had quietly befriended, though he spent less time around them than around the Knights of the Roundtable. Merlin surveyed the room to see if he could locate Percival—if he found the gentle giant, then he could probably easily find Gwaine, Lancelot, Elyan, and Leon as they would doubtlessly be with him.
Merlin's eyes jumped around the crowd for a few minutes before he finally located Percival situated against a wall next to a table crawling with activity. Merlin grinned fleetingly as he picked his way to the knights. "Sorry. Sorry. Excuse me." He offered as he accidently elbowed a few people in the process. Merlin finally stumbled over to them and grinned when he spotted Gwaine and Elyan amidst a drinking game—competing on who could finish first with Leon counting with a grin on his face.
Percival was the first to notice him. He blinked and then grinned, striding forward, and giving Merlin a bear hug before pulling back and ruffling Merlin's hair. "Merlin, it's good to see you." Percival spoke louder to make up for all of the noises inside the tavern.
"You too." Merlin nodded, glancing past the knight to the others. Gwaine was the first to finish the chugging contest and slapped his tankard down with a triumphant smirk. "Hey guys." Merlin greeted, speaking louder—his voice turned slightly hoarse. Elyan started choking on his mead and Merlin felt slightly apologetic as Leon slapped the night on the back to help him breathe.
Gwaine's grin turned blinding. "Merls." He launched himself towards Merlin and grabbed him into a quick hug, pulling back and slinging an arm across Merlin's shoulder—swaying lightly on his feet. Merlin cringed, knowing that the knight was getting on the serious side of drunk and wondering how much of that might be his fault. "Should you be out of bed so soon, mate?" The knight queried, sounding concerned.
Merlin rolled his eyes good-naturedly and nodded. "I'll be alright." He waved a dismissive hand. He took a seat at the table, snatching one from a nearby table and dragging it over to the table that the knights had selected. He waved off the offer for a tankard—not entirely sure he wanted to feel the burn as it traveled down his throat. Merlin glanced around, feeling slightly out-of-place, though he shrugged the feeling off.
"I can't imagine that Gaius would have cleared you to come to the tavern of all places, Merlin." Lancelot chipped in, eyebrows raised and a half-smile on his face. The expression made it hard for Merlin to lie to him, though he knew that the knight had guessed that Merlin would eventually catch up to them from the glint in Lancelot's eyes.
Merlin shrugged. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him." He answered with a mischievous grin. His expression softened and he shifted his weight, awkward. "I actually wanted to—" Merlin started.
Leon cut him off. "You don't need to apologize, Merlin." The knight informed him, one hand loosely wrapped around a tankard and his expression turned serious as Merlin glanced towards him.
He didn't agree with that. He did need to apologize for the words he had screamed because they were untrue and didn't consider how they could have possibly known that something might happen. "But, I do. I said some horrible things to all of you—" Merlin insisted stubbornly.
Gwaine rolled his eyes. "You and I have very different definitions of horrible, Merls." He informed Merlin, draping himself across the chair. He regarded Merlin with a lifted eyebrow. "I mean, that doesn't even come close to the worst thing someone has ever said to me." Gwaine continued.
Elyan nodded. "It's true." He spoke. "You should have seen what that barmaid said to him last week." Elyan added with a quick grin.
Merlin frowned, "But, I hurt you all. I tried to blame all of you, and it wasn't any of your fault—you couldn't have possibly known. You couldn't have possibly guessed that something like that would happen." He spoke quickly, not wanting to be cut off by them assuring him with platitudes. Maybe they didn't see something for him to feel guilty over, but that didn't change the fact that he had said those things and they needed to know that he hadn't meant them.
Leon put a hand on his shoulder. "There's nothing for us to forgive you for, Merls." Leon told him, no sign of hurt or pain in his voice or face—the only thing there was fondness and a slight form of exasperation.
"Exactly, mate." Elyan agreed, folding his arms across his chest. "You had a severely high fever—we can't be angry at you for saying something like that when you were that sick." The knight continued.
Lancelot nodded his agreement. "Yes, and it was only a few days ago that you were knocking on death's door again, which is why you should be resting." The knight continued, lifting a challenging eyebrow when Merlin moved to protest. He suddenly stood up and grabbed a parcel that was on the table beside Gwaine. "We actually got you something to show that there are no hard feelings a few hours ago. We were going to give it to you tomorrow during training, but you're here now, so—" Lancelot trailed off, handing the parcel over.
Merlin blinked in surprise, glancing at his brothers and then his gaze flicked to the parcel in his hands. He unwrapped it carefully and blinked once more when he unfolded fabric. It was an overcoat—one that's color was a deep burgundy in comparison to the brown color of his old one and as he unfolded it, he brushed his fingers against stitching on the inside of the sleeve. It was a Pendragon symbol, stitched in gold, and Merlin realized that it was almost akin to a cloak.
Percival put a hand on his shoulder. "Since you can't be a knight, little man, we figured we'd get you something in the colors to show that you are one of us." He told him, checking the fabric on the inside of the overcoat.
It was then that Merlin registered that the coat's fabric was dyed leather—providing him with that form of protection where chainmail would not be proper. He felt a huge grin stretch across his face as he put the overcoat on, fingers tracing over the golden pendragon symbol and the fact that this had come from them and something that showed their acceptance of him. It was one of the things he treasured most in this world—the acceptance of those he cared about (and though, it may not be full acceptance as they didn't know of his magic or the fact that he couldn't stay dead but—).
"It suits you." Lancelot noted.
Merlin nodded, tracing the symbol with his fingers to stop himself from anxiously pressing his fingers against his throat—the absent gesture of put pressure on the wound a lingering message—as he felt tears gather in the corners of his eyes. "Thank you." He whispered. Thank you for being here for me. Thank you for finding me. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Thank you for getting through this. It was incredibly painful to write some parts of it. And I might add onto this, if anyone is interested in seeing them find the bandits that started it all, Merlin concluding his immortality with Gaius (and then with Kilgarrah), and, potentially, other points of view. Anyways, I hope that you all have a fantastic Thanksgiving! (I know I said in the last story I posted for Merlin that I would try to find something that would be lighter and fluffier, but the angst-bunnies attacked me and so this happened - word of advice, when you are viciously attacked my angst-plot-bunnies, you can't tell them no or they just keep attacking).
Also, on a completely unrelated note - I've been looking for this story forever but I don't remember the name of it or the summary, but I remember the plot. It was about an modern-day alternate universe where Arthur and Merlin are brothers and Arthur is visiting on a break with his friends. And during the visit, three of the newer friends pull a nasty prank on Merlin and try to drive a wedge between Merlin and Arthur. I think it's around three chapters (or it might be two, I can't remember), but - if anyone has an idea on where I can find this story, please leave a comment because I've been trying to find it for months and this is the last thing I can think of to find it.