A/N: This was originally posted on AO3 on 9th February as part of a Merlin fandom challenge. This fic is set during season 4 episode 1. The fic is rated T for somewhat graphic depictions of injuries.

"You could have died tonight."

They're in Gwen and Elyan's childhood home, sitting on father's old bed with their armour put aside. Gwen is busy in the castle trying to treat the Dorocha's victims, and Percival would sooner be in the citadel, too, fighting off those monstrous spirits, but Elyan insists on checking him over first. Most of the people are as safe as they can be now, Elyan says at the first sign of Percival's dissent, and even a knight needs time to recover.

Percival doesn't look so agreeable about it, but he sits willingly enough, shirt off, while Elyan looks him over for injuries. He's cold to the touch and winces when Elyan brushes his fingers over old scars. But otherwise, he's okay.

He's certainly okay enough to smile, which he does at Elyan's remark. "The life of a knight," he replies, as if it's nothing.

Elyan certainly doesn't think it's nothing.

"I'm serious," he says. His hands find the scar from Percival's first battle as a knight. "For a moment back there, I really thought…"

His voice trails off. He's not really sure what he had thought, when he found Percival and the children, the Dorocha about to descend. It had been as if his thoughts just stopped. There had been nothing in his mind but blank dread, nothing more than instinct propelling him forward, swinging his torch.

Percival's never been one for many words. And he doesn't need to hear Elyan explaining his thoughts to be able to understand them. He rests one hand on Elyan's knee and nods. "I know."

And then he smiles, far brighter than all of the candles and lanterns they've lit through the house. "Thank you," he says. "And think of this: by next week, we'll have forgotten all about it."

It's hard not to feel light-hearted whenever Percival smiles. Elyan chuckles. "Those kids certainly won't forget about it," he says. "They'll be telling stories about this for years! The legend of Sir Percival, protector of children everywhere."

Percival laughs. "All thanks to you, you know," he says. Amusement twinkles in his eyes. "My knight."

Elyan rolls his eyes. "Well, it's like I said, isn't it?" He recalls his words from earlier that night. "Can't let you get away with all the glory."

The humour in Percival's eyes softens. "I'm happy to share it."

The rest of Elyan's work is quiet. To be honest, he's more grateful than anything else right now for Percival's good health – medicine is hardly one of Elyan's skills. A sword in his hand, or a hammer at the forge, and he's at home. But getting his hands into someone, holding their very life, and trying to repair them? Now that's hard.

He's no expert, but Percival seems winded, and he could probably do with a rest. They could all do with a rest, frankly, though none of them will get it until they've found a way to defeat the Dorocha. But Elyan wants Percival to have this, at least. Who knows how much longer this fight will go on for?

When Percival is putting his shirt back on, Elyan pats the pillow. At once, Percival looks mutinous.

Elyan gives an exaggerated sigh. "Come on," he says. "One hour, that's all. You've faced far greater foes than a bedtime."

A smile tugs at Percival's lips, but he stays put. "I should be fighting," he counters. "Doing my duty."

"And you will," Elyan says. "Once you've had your rest." He takes Percival's hand, speaking more sincerely now. "You've saved many lives tonight. You've earned some rest."

Percival eyes him, almost wary. "And you?"

Elyan looks at the pillow enviously. "I can rest later." He turns a mild warning look on Percival before any more disagreements can be started. "An hour," he says. "I'll meet you here if I can, or at the square."

Percival clearly still has his doubts, but he squeezes Elyan's hand and doesn't protest. Success.

Elyan rises to his feet – and then he winces. Percival spots it at once.

"What's the matter?"

Elyan shakes his head. He should have known better than to think Percival would miss it. "It's nothing," he says, even as the pain twinges sharply in his gut. "Truly. It's barely more than a scratch."

"Elyan."

Elyan sighs. He sits back on the bed and pulls up his shirt. "Look," he says, "I bandaged it and everything. I'm fine."

But he doesn't exactly feel fine. Half of his words come through gritted teeth, and the movement of standing and sitting down again so hastily has put a churning heat in his belly, a burning pain that threatens to rob him of his breath. It had been easier to ignore before, in the midst of the fight and then when he'd been focused on Percival. Now that he's fully aware of the pain again, it's everywhere. He sits very still and tries not to let on about it too obviously.

It's a hopeless endeavour with Percival. He always sees everything in Elyan.

Percival's fingers skirt the edges of the bandage. Elyan winces again, and Percival's eyebrows shoot up. He looks at Elyan with a question in his eyes.

Elyan nods his assent. "Go ahead," he says, a little breathless.

Percival carefully pulls away the bandage.

He's no longer bleeding, which is good. But the tear in his flesh is angry and sore, and exposure to the cold air stings fiercely. He doesn't want to look at the wound if he can help it – which is just as well, because the mere thought of bending to look sends a surge of pain through his abdomen.

Percival lets the bandages fall away, as he meets Elyan's gaze with concern. "What happened?"

"I…" Elyan sighs and averts his eyes. "One of the knights got hit by a Dorocha, he was thrown back. He was holding his sword when it happened, and…" It's more embarrassing than anything else, really. "I wasn't looking. And, well-" He gestures over his wound.

"Like I said, it's nothing," he goes on. "I was just a bit foolish."

"You were," Percival agrees. But his touch is gentle, and there's no judgement in his eyes when he looks at Elyan. Only care.

He runs a finger along the underside of the wound, and Elyan's next breath is a hiss. Percival shoots him an apologetic look. "Did you clean it?" he asks.

Elyan shrugs. "Splashed some water," he mutters. He knows it's hardly ideal, but getting to the well in the midst of all this chaos should be an achievement in itsef. He hasn't had the time to deal with it properly.

"I was going to see Gaius about it," he adds. "Later." Which is somewhat true. He was probably going to wait until dawn, when the Dorocha seemed likely to retreat.

Percival busies himself with looking for some plants to ward away the chances of infection, while Elyan helps out as best he can from his prone position, calling out likely locations within the house. Before his knighthood, he was used to small burns and accidents every now and then at the forge, basic enough to treat himself. It's a funny feeling for someone else to be doing it though, someone ordinary, not a physician. He can't remember the last time anyone took care of him like this since his father.

Percival returns with a tincture of witch hazel, and a small bowl of hastile crushed leaves. Percival puts the bowl down and then stares at it, as if doing so might reveal the secrets of how to use it. Clearly Elyan isn't the only one inexperienced at healing.

They figure it out together, though it takes some doing. They trade suggestions, try to remember what Gaius does and piece together their various memories. Eventually, they've got a plan that sounds about right.

Percival starts to dab the mixture around the edges of the wound, and it's certainly preferable to getting stabbed but that doesn't mean Elyan likes it.

He doesn't give any voice to his pain, but Percival knows it's there. Percival's free hand finds Elyan's shoulder, gripping tight. It's a grounding touch, pulling Elyan's mind away from the pain and giving him something new to focus on. All of his attention zeroes down on the sturdy, solid weight of Percival's hand.

It's over soon, even with the questionable mint and yarrow concoction that Percival makes him drink for good measure. Elyan sighs when he feels a fresh bandage against his skin. This is definitely better than a hasty splash from the well.

"I should come to you for healing more often," he jokes, as Percival tidies up.

Percival snorts. "Can't guarantee you'll leave with everything still in the right place."

Elyan shrugs. "If it means I get to lay around and watch you work…" Percival returns to the bed and Elyan pulls him down for a kiss. "Sounds worth the risk to me." He's tempted to continue with this, to take advantage of the free time – but his injury still aches, and Percival is too considerate for it anyway, already moving away.

He settles on the bed next to Elyan, looking him over with a wry smile. "I reckon you're the one who needs to rest now," he remarks.

Elyan doesn't disagree. He rests his head on Percival's shoulder and lets himself relax, for what feels like the first time in an age. "Five minutes," he says, "then give me my sword."

"An hour."

"Ten minutes."

Whatever's in the leaves is doing its work; Elyan already feels too drowsy to keep up his bargaining attempts. But it doesn't matter really. He trusts Percival to wake him when he's ready to do his duty again.

For now, though, Elyan just closes his eyes and leans into Percival's side. For now, they can rest.