18. Quiet Truths
"But it does not seem that I can trust anyone,' said Frodo.
Sam looked at him unhappily.
'It all depends on what you want,' put in Merry. 'You can trust us to stick with you through thick and thin-to the bitter end. And you can trust us to keep any secret of yours-closer than you keep it yourself. But you cannot trust us to let you face trouble alone, and go off without a word. We are your friends, Frodo."
- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring
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Sunlight glaring through his closed eyelids disturbed Arthur the next morning and he groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes as he rolled onto his back. He was groggy, exhausted, and so-not-conscious-yet, having spent most of the night in agonizing thought, and all he wanted to do was keep sleeping.
"Go away," he mumbled, hearing bustling sounds from his chambers. There was no response, but as even more horrendous light streamed in, he knew the servant was ignoring him, as usual. When the pillow was tugged out from under his head, however, he took personal offence.
"No respect…" he whined out of habit, eyes finally working open. "I'll throw you in the sto –" He stopped abruptly as his brain finally snapped on completely and caught up with his mouth as he took in the sight before him. It was Merlin, standing beside his bed and holding his pillow beneath crossed arms, a cheeky grin plastered onto his face.
"Merlin!" Arthur cried, leaping from the bed and gazing at his friend, unrestrained joy shooting through him. He grinned back, his face splitting with happiness as he watched Merlin throw the pillow back onto the messy bed and turn away, picking up clothes and straightening just like he normally would have, but without a single sound.
Scrubbing a hand over his face to banish the last vestiges of sleep as Merlin scrounged through the wardrobe, Arthur glanced around quickly. He still couldn't believe Merlin was here, in his chambers, with him. He'd completely expected the king to go back on his word, or stall with excuses about why Merlin couldn't be spared yet. Not send the boy to his room the very next morning. Still, all the shutters were thrown open on his windows, a pail of steaming water sat by the washbasin, and a good-sized breakfast was spread on the table, so Merlin had clearly been given permission and instructions. It was almost like the start of a regular day, except that it was so drastically not. He turned back toward the other as the younger boy dumped a pile of clothes onto his bed, his smile fading as he finally took a good look at his friend.
"Merlin, where are your boots?" he demanded, blurting out the first thing that came to his mind. It was just that the boy hated having cold feet. Arthur might be a clueless prince, but even he had learned this over the two years Merlin had served him. In fact, Arthur could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen his servant without boots on – usually involving said servant being late for work and Arthur marching down to his room to drag him bodily out of bed – and even then the boy had always been wearing thick socks. To see him totally barefoot was something of a shock.
Merlin paused in his straightening of the bed coverings long enough to roll his eyes, gesturing pointedly to his own throat.
"You ate them?" the prince teased sarcastically. It was a natural, ingrained reaction that just slipped out before he could stop it, though his mood was rapidly darkening as he continued to examine his younger friend.
The servant threw his hands up in exasperation before turning back to the bed. He twitched the covers slightly and poked at the pillow a few times before picking up a tunic in each hand and turning around, head nodding questioningly between the two.
Seeing Merlin try to pretend everything was normal even as he stood there barefoot with hands that trembled from cold and who knew what else, Arthur growled and strode forward, tugging both tunics from his friend's fists and throwing them back onto the bed, then placed a hand gently on the boy's shoulder. "Hold still," he ordered and proceeded to look him up and down, anger flaring as he took in everything.
The collar – while he loathed it – he expected considering that was the horrible discovery he'd made last time he'd had to look his friend over like this, but now there was so much more that was just wrong.
Merlin was pale to the point of being ill with dark bags under his eyes that spoke of not nearly enough sleep. He was filthy – covered in soot and dirt and grease; Arthur could tell he'd tried valiantly to wash up but it seemed to be a lost cause. At least the hateful manacles had finally been removed allowing Merlin free motion with his hands, though they'd left behind rings of purple bruises and scabbed over skin on the skinny wrists. He could also make out many other bruises in various stages of healing beneath the dirt – on the boy's face and neck, his feet and ankles and his hands – hands that were so chapped and red from too much work that they were bleeding in several places.
With growing fury, the prince realized that more than just Merlin's shoes were missing, all of the boy's own clothing had been taken away and he was now dressed in rags so worn-out and poor that Arthur wouldn't have forced them on prisoners in the dungeons – frayed trousers that were too thin and too short and a tunic that hardly qualified to bear the name. And of course the boots and socks, jacket and neckerchief – anything that might provide any sort of warmth and comfort – were entirely absent. A plethora of quiet curses he couldn't hold back escaped his lips and he unconsciously tightened his hold on Merlin's shoulder to the point his friend winced.
"What have they done to you now?" he growled.
Merlin didn't answer – of course he didn't, Arthur berated himself mentally – but instead twisted out of the prince's grip and tried to move away, back to the discarded pile of clothing, obviously hoping to make light of his own horrible situation. Arthur refused to allow that, however, and reached out and caught the boy by his left forearm, clamping his hand tightly to stop his friend's escape.
He expected Merlin to turn and glare daggers of exasperation at him, while stubbornly trying to tug away, or to stop and roll his eyes again. He didn't expect his friend to crumple to the ground, mouth open in a silent scream as his face turned to ash.
Arthur instantly let go and stood frozen in shock as Merlin drew his arm protectively in toward his chest, eyes squeezed shut and breath ragged, before the anger surged even hotter through his veins
"Merlin!" he cried, then winced as he saw his friend flinch at the seething fury in his voice. With great effort, he forced it back as he crouched down. "Merlin," he repeated much more softly, reaching out gently for the obviously damaged arm. He slowly pulled it away from the boy's protective hold, his friend allowing it though he noticed the young man's breathing quicken, and then with utmost care tugged the tattered sleeve up to the elbow.
Arthur looked – looked and stared – as things swirled and crashed and roared and broke inside of him. Then he closed his eyes, head dropping in shame, though the image of the blackened, festering wound stayed tattooed upon his mind.
Merlin had been branded.
Scarred for life.
An unwanted mark burned deep into his flesh with abject callousness and cruelty, meant to strip away his identity as a human being and designate him a "thing" instead.
Arthur's stomach churned and his righteous anger raged, hatred and hopelessness and failure surging. He tried so hard for Merlin to hold it back, knowing the frightened and fragile state of his friend – carefully releasing the injured limb and climbing to his feet, stepping away. But the images kept flashing through his mind, stoking the anger – his father, bitter and alone with both his beloved ward and son and heir missing, Gwen and the impossible choice he was facing between love and honor or the safety of Merlin and all his people, and a trembling and abused servant boy who had suffered beyond belief in the last two weeks, his best friend that he'd completely failed to protect. It was too much for Arthur – hot-headed prince and warrior, never gifted with much patience – and it just boiled over.
With a roar of fury and frustration, he grabbed hold of the nearest chair and threw it at the wall, feeling like it was his own soul falling in splinters to the floor. He stared at them for a few moments, stunned and lost, before putting a fist up to the stone and leaning his forehead against it, eyes closed once more as he tried to steady his harsh breathing.
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Eyes and teeth tightly clenched, Merlin sat where he had dropped, trying to force the pain down from unconsciousness-inducing torture to manageable agony. He was dimly aware of Arthur examining his arm, then after a while being left alone. His eyes flew open, however, when the silence was shattered by an aching roar and a splintering crash, and his heart broke as he took in the destroyed chair and then he watched Arthur sag against the wall, bare back heaving and shoulders slumped in defeat.
It sparked his courage and resilience that had taken such a brutal beating in the last few days, seeing his friend hurting so. Willing the bile back down into his hollow stomach, he gulped air until his breathing was vaguely steady then found his wobbly feet, purposefully forcing himself to drop his throbbing arm to his side where it was less noticeable instead of cradling it like his instincts were demanding. When he was certain he wouldn't pitch headlong back to the floor, he padded to Arthur's side and softly laid his right hand on his friend's shaking arm.
It took a moment, but Arthur finally opened his eyes and looked at him. Immediately, Merlin started firmly shaking his head.
It's not your fault! he screamed in his mind, willing his eyes and his actions to get his message across.
Arthur snorted quietly and looked away, gaze lingering on the broken chair at his feet.
"I have failed my father and my kingdom, myself as a knight, and most of all, you, Merlin."
Merlin squeezed his friend's arm tighter, animatedly shaking his head again, though he wasn't sure if Arthur would see the motion.
"Merlin, it's because of me that you've been brought here, that you've lost your freedom! It's my fault you've been so brutally hurt and permanently scarred!" At this the prince turned his face, eyes drifting to the hidden brand. "You are my friend and my servant and my responsibility, and I've failed to protect you!"
His voice was laced with hard anger as the fist held against the wall tightened once again, and Arthur turned back, stuffing his face into the wall as before. "I don't need a servant this morning," he mumbled eventually. "You should…should just go."
Dejectedly, feeling as though he had also failed his master but unable to argue with anything other than the motion of his head and the expression in his eyes – neither of which were currently working because Arthur refused to look at him – Merlin let his hand fall away. He stepped back, prepared to reluctantly do as he'd been asked, when his eyes fell on the carving over the fire.
When he'd first entered Arthur's room that morning he'd been unsure of what exactly to expect. Having already been up for hours, scrubbing his life away, he was shocked when the Steward appeared, dragged him up by his hair, and ordered him off to the oldest tower with the instructions that service to the occupant was to be added to his already horrendously long list of awful chores. With trepidation bordering on fear he'd gone, lugging water and food, though a strange sort of hopeful calmness had washed over him as he moved through the room directly below his destination and on up to the door. He stood there for a minute, puzzled, before knocking softly. When there'd been no answer, he hesitantly pushed the door open, only to be instantly flooded with happy relief at the sight of his messy-haired prince fast asleep and drooling on the pillow.
He hadn't been sentenced to serve some brute on top of everything else! He was to serve his friend!
As he'd set the pail of water on the floor and then laid the table, the warm feeling had filled him again, and this time knowing he was safe, he'd paused. It was calm and protective and familiar – tugging at him like an old friend…
Magic! he'd realized with a start! There, whispering through the room! They might have contained his own deep within him with the cruel collar, but they couldn't stop him from feeling the flutterings of it in the outside world.
Curious, he finally raised the head that had been beaten into a submissive droop over the last four days and looked – really looked – around, though he knew he'd pay for it later when he had less time to finish his work.
Still, it was worth it because what he'd found was wonderful – though he rather doubted Arthur would see it that way. All around the worn-out chamber was magic – charms and good wishes and little protection spells. Words for good dreams and runes for good health… Pictures for happiness and patience. Most of them had little if any power left, but somehow they still made Merlin feel so much better. And then there was the carving – the magnificent, glorious carving – stretching across the place of honor on the mantle.
He'd known Arthur had to have been placed in this cramped, tumble-down tower room with the remnants of magic as a slight and an insult. Over the last four days he'd learned many things – that outwardly Arthur was an honored guest, but when the ale was flowing and the servants' tongues free and loosened as they gossiped at night away from the dark presence of their king (while Merlin slaved in the background), he was dishonored as base and low, a fake prince from an uncouth and backward land. And magic, while not banned in Tharennor, was certainly not held with much esteem either. As they cursed and hurt him, ordering him to the least desirable jobs, he couldn't tell which they despised him for more – that he was a vile slave, or that he was tainted with magic.
But what was intended as a shame to Arthur made Merlin's heart soar, for he could tell that whomever had once lived in these rooms, he'd been good and kind and powerful – and maybe, just maybe, some of that lingering magic could help protect his friend.
So, when Arthur asked him to leave, broken and defeated, he suddenly knew what to do.
Reaching out, he grabbed the older boy's arm once again and tugged – firmly – until Arthur was forced to look up from his brooding.
"Merlin," he sighed, "I said –"
But Merlin adamantly shook his head and ignoring the pain that tried to pull tears from his eyes as he moved it, reached out with his other hand and cut Arthur's words off the only way he could, by clamping a hand across his mouth.
Shut up, Arthur, he muttered in his head, and it was apparently such an unexpected action that Arthur actually did, lips closing with a snap.
Satisfied, Merlin nodded his head and let his hand fall back away, before tugging on Arthur's arm again.
Come here, prat, he continued his silent conversation, smiling slightly when a shocked and quiet Arthur dutifully followed as he dragged him over to stand in front of the fire he'd lit before waking the prince what seemed ages ago.
"Merlin, what –" Arthur tried again, but Merlin shook his head, glaring as he held a finger up to his lips. Arthur's depression was already lightening slightly to pouting and Merlin fought the urge to "comment" when the prince crossed his arms, gesturing for the servant to get on with it.
Quickly, the boy stepped up to the exquisite carving. He gestured first to the image of the tree and then to himself, then pointed to the dragon and back toward his friend.
Arthur's face drew in with confusion. "While I agree completely that you are skinny and stick-like, I fail to see the need to compare me to an overgrown, evil lizard that just likes to kill and eat things."
Merlin puffed out a breath as he rolled his eyes, only the infernal collar locked around his neck preventing him from making a dig about hunting after the last part, and marched back closer to the carving. With exaggerated gestures he showed how the dragon's tail curved protectively around the tree's trunk, but how the tree also stretched protectively above the dragon. Arthur watch him, face serious once again, but after a moment he looked away, almost ashamed.
"I'm sorry, Merlin. I'm afraid I just don't know what you're trying to tell me."
The servant's shoulders wilted and he almost gave up, before he noticed the pile of ashes scattered thick in Arthur's fireplace, extending far beyond the actual flames. He'd been seeing a lot of ashes and fireplaces lately as cleaning out the castle's hundreds of blackened hearths was a job that had landed on the list of appropriate work for lowly slaves. Idea blooming, he crouched and quickly wrote a few words in the dirt, making sure to stay well away from the fire. A looming presence at his back told him Arthur had followed and was leaning in with curiosity to read.
The dragon protects the tree, the tree protects the dragon. Me and you, we protect each other. NOT a failure!
"But they hurt you. Badly," Arthur argued, voice soft and full of shame and regret.
Yes, Merlin nodded, not denying it. Hurt you, too, he wrote, eyes slightly moist.
"And they will keep hurting you and there's nothing I can do to stop it," his friend muttered, ignoring the last words he'd written.
The younger boy stood, wiping his hand off on his grubby trousers, and faced Arthur. He hesitated for just a moment, before he set his jaw determinedly and reached out, grasping the prince's right forearm in the traditional knight's clasp, eyes boring into his friend's as he begged him to understand what he was saying: I'm stronger than I look, and together we are much stronger than alone.
After a second, Arthur returned the gesture, nodding with that thoughtful expression he sometimes got when Merlin suspected he might be seeing him as more than just a clumsy servant. Then, after a moment he let go.
Merlin was still freezing, still hungry beyond all imagining and in a world of pain, but he grinned anyway because at least he had his friend back, though he knew the prince was still burdened with things they had yet to discuss. With a sweeping gestured, he motioned for Arthur to come back by the bed and pick out which of the least atrocious outfits Merlin had found he wanted to wear for the day.
Still, Arthur hesitated, looking at Merlin with troubled eyes.
"How can you do this?" he finally asked. "Just pretend that everything's normal, it's all okay, when it's so obviously not?"
With a sigh, Merlin dropped his grin. Uncertainly, he reached out and took Arthur's hand, turning it palm up as he had back at the outpost, so he could trace a few words.
I have to, he wrote slowly so Arthur could follow along. It's all I have left.
Arthur's fist curled tightly when he finished, as if to cover up the invisible words, but he followed Merlin over to the bed without protest after that and allowed himself to be washed and dressed.