One.
Merlin flinched.
Two.
Merlin flinched again, more violently this time.
Three.
His whole body rocked forward, as if that somehow would help Arthur escape the next blow.
Four.
Merlin should have seen this coming. Arthur had been a troublemaker from the start. Merlin had told the man to keep his head down, but he should have known it was futile.
Five.
Had that been a whimper?
Six.
Yes. Arthur was whimpering, though he was doing his best to bite down on it, turning it into pained grunts instead. He was stubborn like that.
Seven.
Blood. Gods, there was already so much blood.
Eight.
Fresh, red blood, soaking through the dirtied slave tunic on Arthur's back, blooming outwards on the fabric in a pattern resembling – and the comparison somehow sickened Merlin more than the whipping itself – rose petals.
Nine.
The thin, faded fabric ripped easily enough. Tindar wasn't holding anything back and Merlin knew the leather of that whip was hard, knotted, unyielding. Underneath the torn shirt, Arthur's skin was flayed, slowly being shredded to pieces to become a mass of raw flesh.
Ten.
An aborted scream, and Merlin's hands came up to cover his ears. He couldn't listen and watch. Watching was bad enough. He was already trembling and shaking. This was all too much. Merlin wanted to turn and run away, but his absence might be noticed and then, it might be him in Arthur's place, the scars on his back ripped open by the very same whip, the same knotted leather tails—
Eleven.
They were going past ten. Where was Master Ragnor, protecting his investment? Where was Master Myror, keeping Master Tindar in check? Surely, they wouldn't want Arthur to be out for weeks! They needed him to work the mines, didn't they?
Twelve.
Gods, but Merlin couldn't look at Arthur's back any longer, he just couldn't. The fabric was soaked, torn and clung to Arthur's abused flesh. Merlin let his eyes slip away to focus on the ground next to Arthur's twisting body instead, somewhere around his legs, somewhere safe. In that moment, he saw something small slip out of Arthur's pocket.
Thirteen.
Merlin narrowed his eyes, his hands still firmly pressed against his ears, trying to block out Arthur's hoarse screams. What was that, gleaming in the dim light of dusk? A coin?
Fourteen.
A ring, Merlin was sure of it now. Arthur must have hidden it away, saved it from the Masters when he first came to Hell a week ago. It had to be significant, then. A wedding ring, perhaps. Was Arthur married? Were his wife and children waiting for him at home?
Fifteen.
He would get Arthur that ring. He wouldn't let the Masters get to it, he promised himself that, he promised Arthur that. After the whipping, the ring would be waiting for him, safe and sound with Merlin. He could do that much for a fellow slave.
Nobody deserved to be whipped. Nobody should ever be whipped like that.
It took Merlin a moment to realise Master Tindar had stopped. He was breathing heavily, grinning like a maniac, but he had stopped. It was the first time Merlin noticed Master Tindar was bleeding, too, from his nose and lip, and his cheek was swollen. Had Arthur struck him? Was that why he was being punished?
The Master let the whip slip to the floor, moved his right shoulder in a circular motion as if his arm had cramped. Then he approached Arthur and kicked his left leg, which unbalanced Arthur even more than he already was. He swayed, the ropes digging into his wrists the only thing that held him up.
Merlin slowly let his hands slip from his ears.
"That'll teach you to ever lay a finger on your Masters again, slave!" After that the Master turned on his heels and walked off.
Arthur was breathing loudly, making a few keening noises, then quieted, still hanging loosely in his restraints.
Merlin did not want to go anywhere near him. The whip was still there, on the ground. If he approached Arthur, he might just be next, tied up alongside him and punished, too, like those three times, those three horrible times…
But he had made a promise. He would get to that ring!
So he dared to take a step forward, then another, approaching Arthur. Nobody said anything, nobody made a move to stop him. Merlin came to kneel on the ground next to Arthur, as if to take a look at him from below. He didn't look at the ring. Merlin's right hand ghosted quickly over the ground until he got hold of it. With a flick of his hand, he made it disappear into his own pocket.
"Merlin."
Merlin flinched. He'd been caught. He'd been caught getting that ring. Now, he'd be next, whipped and flayed and—
"Come on, Merlin, help me get him down!"
Merlin blinked. It was Master Myror speaking and he didn't sound angry.
"Merlin?" the Master repeated, more impatiently now.
"So sorry, Master," Merlin managed, finally coming to his senses. "Of course, Master. What do you need me to do?"
"Get the ropes. I'll hold him up."
Merlin stood. "Yes, Master."
He tried his best not to look at Arthur as he gingerly leaned forward, stretching until he stood on the tips of his toes, careful not to touch the bleeding back. Swiftly, he worked away at the ropes. They had dug deeply into Arthur's skin and his wrists were raw and oozing blood. Clearly, he had struggled too much against the restraints, which had already been wrapped tightly in the first place.
When Merlin had loosened the ropes, Arthur's arms slipped down immediately and he sagged with a pained grunt. Master Myror guided him to the ground until Arthur lay belly-down in the dirt, trembling.
Master Myror called for some slaves to come forward. Merlin was glad to see it was the Knights who responded.
"Tell them where you want him, Merlin," said the Master and walked away.
Right. Merlin was expected to treat Arthur. He turned towards Gwaine.
"Kitchen," he said softly. "My bed. Stomach down."
Gwaine and Percival half-carried, half-dragged Arthur towards the dining hall, Elyan and Lancelot following right after. Leon stumbled forward next to them, looking impossibly pale, mouth pressed into a tight line and forehead marred by deep, worried furrows. Merlin had already known Leon and Arthur knew each other, but it became clear now how much Leon cared. They were friends rather than acquaintances. He looked positively devastated.
When they had set Arthur down on Merlin's mattress, tucked into a corner of the kitchen during the day, Merlin knelt next to him. He stared down at Arthur's mess of a back, then pressed his eyes closed.
For a moment, he thought he couldn't do it, that he couldn't treat a whipped back. He was a good slave, a good slave had no business anywhere near a whipping.
But then Arthur let out another, pitiful moan of pain and Merlin's eyes flew open.
"I need a bucket of fresh well water," he said, to nobody in particular. "Hand me my medical supplies, up on that shelf."
Belatedly, Merlin realised that he should be serving dinner. People had followed them already; Merlin could hear them settling down in the dining area beyond the kitchen.
"Somebody needs to take care of the food. The cauldron is on the fire, the breads are cooling outside."
Merlin didn't look up to see who took over which task. As people began to move around him, Merlin delicately tugged at Arthur's shirt. It clung to his bleeding back and the movement elicited another pained noise from the man.
"It's all right," said Merlin, a laughable phrase of comfort given the sorry state of Arthur's back. "You'll be fine, Arthur. I'll take care of you."
To Merlin's surprise, Arthur answered, albeit somewhat indistinctly, "Thank you."
Merlin swallowed. He stood to retrieve the shears from the cupboard, then knelt back down and cut away the remnants of the shirt. Soon, he had his medical supplies on his lap and a fresh bucket of water at his side. He sloshed some of it over his hands to wash them, then retrieved a clean cloth from the linen bag.
He dipped it into the water. Then, as gently as he could, he started cleaning the wounds. Arthur grunted, hissed, keened and writhed on Merlin's mattress. All the while, Merlin could hear the sound of people eating in the background and he almost laughed at the absurdity of it.
Cleaned, Arthur's back didn't look nearly as bad. With most of the blood gone, Merlin could see the whip marks were still distinct from each other, plenty of skin intact. It had been a brutal whipping, but Master Tindar had aimed to punish, not to maim or kill. Arthur could probably walk tomorrow, and would be expected to return to work before the week was even close to over.
Merlin retrieved the wound salve and grimaced. The second time he would use this on Arthur. He was running low on the stuff already and he doubted Ragnor would provide him with another vial any time soon, not without Merlin doing some significant begging and pleading.
But there was no way around using it if he wanted to stave off infection for Arthur.
As Merlin spread the salve on Arthur's back and wrists, he tried not to think about his own whippings. They had administered more than fifteen lashes then and allowed no treatment. Merlin reckoned it was only his magic, restrained from leaving his body but not from working within his body, that had him survive and heal, especially that terrible third time, the time that had made him stop trying…
He shuddered, willing the memories away. When he looked up, Leon was there, staring down at them. "How is he?" he asked.
It was Arthur that answered. He had his head turned to the side. He was grimacing with pain, but he was lucid and talking, now that the worst of the shock had passed, his voice hoarse. "I'm fine, Leon."
Merlin made some space and Leon crouched down next to him.
"You shouldn't have done that," he told Arthur.
Arthur let out something like a chuckle. "You know me, Leon."
"Yes, I do," said Leon gravely. "I told you before, you've got nothing to prove."
Arthur grimaced. "It wasn't about that. He was being cruel to you. I couldn't let that slide." Leon shook his head and grimaced, which prompted Arthur to add, "You know I consider it my responsibility to protect you. It's my duty."
"Not in here, it isn't," Leon replied, his voice shaken.
Arthur managed a smile this time. "Nothing has changed for me."
Yes, that much is clear, thought Merlin. Whatever former life Arthur had lived, it wasn't former to him. He was still clinging to it with all his might, even now, after Master Tindar had tried to whip the spirit right out of him. Seven days in Hell and a whipping was enough to adjust to a new reality for most people. Not Arthur, though. From what Merlin had gathered just now, he had gone against the Master to protect Leon. Stupidly noble.
"Rest," said Merlin firmly. Arthur's eyes flickered over to him. Merlin found that with Arthur lying down and his back beat, it was no longer difficult to meet his gaze. "I have work to do, but I'll check on you later."
"Thank you," Arthur said, for the second time that night.
Merlin nodded and got up. Quickly he ate his share of the stew, standing up. He found he had lost any appetite, but he forced himself to down the food, then saved a bowl for Arthur, in case he was up to eating later. Then, he got started on his chores, hurrying about the camp to set everything to order. Treating Arthur had cost him valuable time and today of all days, he didn't want to be caught slacking.
When he finally entered Master Ragnor's hut, the Master wasn't alone. Masters Myror, Tindar and Derian were with him, all standing near the hearth, discussing something. Merlin tensed and stopped at the entrance, head bowed.
Master Ragnor noticed him first. "Ah, Merlin. Come here for a second."
Merlin really did not want to walk up to four Masters, one of which had just brutally whipped another slave. But it wasn't like he had a choice. He stepped closer and bowed as low as he possibly could, willing them all to understand that he was as obedient as ever, that Arthur hadn't put any ideas in his head. "Yes, Master?"
"How is your… patient?"
Merlin decided remaining in a half-bow would probably be his safest bet for this conversation. "He is resting, Master. I treated the lashes to prevent infection."
"Not that the scum deserves it," Master Tindar growled and Merlin flinched.
"I still need him to be able to work, Tindar," Master Ragnor scolded him. "He's in enough pain to learn his lesson, believe me." He shifted his tone, addressing Merlin again, "How long do you think, Merlin?"
Under normal circumstances, a physician would probably want to spare Arthur for at least a week. But these weren't normal circumstances, and Merlin wasn't a physician. He was a slave dabbling in the arts of healing, a slave who could not make any sort of demands. Here was the best he could do for Arthur: "With your leave, Master Ragnor, perhaps three or four days of rest before he could be back at the mine?"
"Three days," decided Master Ragnor, almost cheerfully. "Not too bad, then. I expect him to help you with your chores until then, Merlin. Keep him busy scrubbing those floors. Nothing he can't do with a few lashes to his skin, don't you agree?"
"Of course, Master Ragnor, as you say," said Merlin. He'd try to spare Arthur the worst of it. He could have him cut vegetables and ladle soup, wash the dishes…
"Get busy in here," the Master ordered and Merlin, relieved to be able to step away from the gathering, eagerly went to clean the place.
All the while, the Masters kept talking in the background. Merlin let their voices wash over him, only half-listening. They were discussing the bandit problem again, not that he cared much.
"… too many of them. Every bloody time we're passing through those woods, I start jumping at owls and squirrels…"
"… need to send six, maybe seven men along with the ore? But then we have all but four guards left here at the camp, that's way too dangerous…"
"… wrote Bayard three letters, informing him of this problem, and that man does nothing…"
Eventually, Merlin was allowed to excuse himself and he returned, tired and winded, to the kitchen, where Arthur was dozing fitfully in Merlin's bed. Merlin would have to sleep on the floor tonight, but he had had worse. It was still better than the barracks.
Arthur stirred when Merlin stoked the fire, trying to make the embers last through the night to chase away the worst of the mountain cold.
"Merlin?" he rasped.
"Right here," he answered and came to kneel by Arthur's side again. His back had taken well to the salve and the shallower cuts were already slightly scabbed now, but most of the lashes were oozing, looking angry red and painfully swollen against Arthur's skin. There were a couple of other scars there, thin silver lines on Arthur's arms and flank, but overall, his skin seemed to have been quite flawless before. Clearly, punishment like this was completely new to Arthur. "How are you feeling?"
"Terrific," quipped Arthur.
Well. If he had retained a sense of humour, it couldn't be all that bad. Merlin found himself surprised to find the man this upbeat after fifteen lashes. Merlin had received twenty after his first escape attempt and been delirious for two days. But then, he had been twelve, small and skinny… The pain, it had been unbearable, but nothing compared to the third time, stark naked, doused with water and…
"Hey, Merlin. You all right?"
Merlin flinched and looked at Arthur. Blue eyes were watching him carefully. Again, Merlin found it wasn't difficult to meet Arthur's gaze tonight. He seemed so much less intimidating now, resting on his stomach and blinking at Merlin, his face strained and tired.
"Sorry, yes. Just a bit distracted," Merlin murmured. "I don't have anything for the pain, but I've saved you some stew?"
Arthur grimaced. "I don't know that I want to get up and eat tonight," he admitted. His voice was gaining strength with every word. "You have it. You would do well to add some meat to those ribs of yours. You need to eat more."
Somehow, Merlin ended up smiling crookedly. "I'll make sure to order some cake for dessert from now on," he replied and Arthur chuckled weakly, likely recognising the foolishness of his own advice.
Merlin got up to get Arthur's stew and bread, devouring it with much more appetite than he had his own portion. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground next to Arthur, who was watching him through half-lidded eyes as he rested.
"You stopped talking to me," he said, out of the blue.
Merlin halted, his spoon hovering mid-air. "Mhm?" was all he responded, feeling wrong-footed.
"You've been avoiding me," Arthur elaborated. "After our argument."
Merlin finished the last spoonful and set the bowl aside. "It wasn't an argument."
Arthur smirked. "No? What would you call it then?"
"A mistake, on my part," Merlin replied softly. "I'm sorry for what I said. You know, I'd never… I mean, the food, you can always be sure—"
"Don't fret," said Arthur dismissively. "You were upset. I get it. All is well."
Merlin nodded, his lingering guilt easing at Arthur's easy forgiveness. He got up to get Arthur a waterskin, which he accepted readily enough, drinking greedily, sloppily.
Suddenly, Merlin thought of something. He set aside the water and reached into his pocket.
"Here," he said, presenting the ring to Arthur, "it slipped out of your breeches when Master Tindar was beating you. I got it back for you before the Masters noticed."
Arthur squinted at Merlin's hand in the dim light, the angle of his line of sight awkward, then his eyes widened. "Oh!" he gasped, stunned. His whole face shifted and then he looked at Merlin with such genuine gratitude that it touched something deep within Merlin. "Thank you, Merlin," Arthur said, sounding almost choked. "I mean it. That ring… If I ever lost it…" He trailed off and swallowed. "I owe you."
Merlin smiled gently. He took Arthur's hand and slipped the ring onto his forefinger. "There you go," he said. "Make sure to hide it again in the morning."
Arthur nodded, flexing and curling his fingers against the added weight of the ring.
"Wedding ring?" Merlin ventured. It looked expensive, precious metals gleaming, cementing Merlin's idea of Arthur as somebody who had once been rather well-off.
Arthur smiled faintly. "My mother's, yes. One of the only things I have of her."
Merlin swallowed. What he wouldn't give to have anything of his own mother. As it was, all he had were fading memories, of brown hair hidden underneath a faded scarf, of her soft voice and kind eyes, bright like Merlin's… Eyes that had looked so desperate and scared that night, her arm stretched out towards Merlin, before that raider had—
"Merlin!" He startled, once more drawn from his thoughts by a watchful Arthur. "You're not okay, are you?" he observed.
Merlin shook his head. Part of him told him he shouldn't show himself like this, that he shouldn't be this vulnerable in front of Arthur, but what was Arthur if not vulnerable himself, skin ripped, fingers still playing with his mother's ring?
"The whipping," he murmured, "it sets me on edge, every time. I just can't…"
Arthur's eyes roamed over him as he came to the right conclusion. "Bad memories?"
"Yes," croaked Merlin. "Terrible ones."
"I'm very sorry," Arthur offered.
"What for?" Merlin replied, a tad bitterly now. "It wasn't you who took up the whip and beat me half to death."
"Still," said Arthur, and nothing more. He didn't need to.
Merlin nodded shakily, running the back of his hand over his suddenly tingling eyes.
"We should get some rest," Merlin finally murmured. He fetched his blanket and found himself curling up right next to Arthur. It was comforting, having somebody sleep near him for once. "Wake me if you need anything," he muttered, eyes already drooping.
"Good night, Merlin," said Arthur, voice soft.
