Whumptober Day #14: "Just hold on."
Arthur has been looking for Merlin for far too long. He's finally found Morgana's hiding place, and he is afraid of what he will encounter inside.
But a king must be brave, so he marches into the stronghold, face grim, head held high. His sword is at the ready, his armor gleams, and his cape flows behind him.
Merlin, he knows, would normally pin the red cloth with Camelot's sigil on it to Arthur's armored shoulders.
But Merlin isn't here, and so, Arthur marches on.
The place is eerie. There are practically no guards. Arthur had been expecting a battle. There are few torches, casting the stone halls in shadows. Arthur's armor reflects the light dimly, and he tries not to shiver at the cold.
Merlin is here, he thinks. Merlin is here, in the cold and the dark. It's what pushes him on, down the hallways that echo with his every step, past the stone bricks that perhaps haven't seen the light of day in centuries, past the intermittent torches that crackle and burn and hurt Arthur's eyes if he looks too closely.
He reaches what seems to be the throne room and finds...no one, still. Strange. This should be the place where Morgana spends most of her time, and yet she is not here (Arthur may not know her as well as he thought he did). Maybe there are beings here whom Arthur cannot see. Perhaps there are ghosts here. He wouldn't put it past magic.
Magic, which is evil. Morgana is evil. This is why Merlin is here. He doesn't deserve to be caught up in this, in whatever feud there is between Arthur and Morgana, between Camelot and magic (between Arthur's father and the rest of the world).
When he follows the natural path down the dungeon stairs, he finally reaches Merlin.
Merlin, who hangs limply, wrists chained to the ceiling and toes brushing the ground.
Arthur cannot see his face, but he knows it is Merlin.
Who else would have such dark, messy hair?
(It certainly is him, but there's no neckerchief, and that's just plain wrong.)
"Merlin," he says, fumbling with the lock on the door. He's picked locks much more complicated than this before. He can do this, he can do this (he can't afford to fail), he can do this (his hands don't normally shake from seeing his best friend hurt and in pain on the other side of the door).
"Merlin," he repeats. "Merlin, talk to me."
Merlin stirs just a little and groans, and Arthur lets out a ragged sigh of relief. "Arthur?" he mumbles.
Arthur finally unlocks the dungeon door and rushes in towards Merlin. "I'm here," he says, cradling Merlin's head in his hands. He winces at the sight of cuts and bruises; Merlin seems so tired. "I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner." He awkwardly clears his throat, trying to push away the emotion welling in his eyes. "I tried my best, really."
"Well"—Merlin coughs painfully and Arthur reaches over to support his back—"you're here now."
"Yeah," Arthur says. He laughs shakily, not feeling at all like the King of Camelot. He only feels like someone who has been missing his friend for far too long, the guilt and desperation tightening his lungs. (His father would have surely scolded him if he were still alive.) Something occurs to him suddenly. How had he forgotten? "Do you know where Morgana is?"
It looks like Merlin attempts a shrug, but it's barely a twitch of the shoulders. Arthur panics just a little and begins picking the locks on Merlin's shackles. Surely he can do this. (His hands are still shaking.) "Dunno," Merlin mutters, resting his head on Arthur's shoulder, and Arthur lets him because it seems like most of the life has been wrung out of him. Arthur hates this. He hates this so much. Merlin is normally so full of life, bursting with it and happiness and energy.
This is what captivity does to people, Arthur knows. He's seen knights go missing and then come back not the same.
He just never thought Merlin would be one of them.
He waits for Merlin to elaborate, but no answer is forthcoming. "Merlin?" he prompts, gently shaking him. "Please don't be asleep." He swallows. "I mean, you lazy dolt, you can't be asleep! You still have chores to do!" He's usually good at pretending. He doesn't sound too convincing as of now.
It seems to rouse Merlin, though. He smiles faintly and says, "Mmm...can't dress yourself, is that it?"
"Sure," Arthur says, only half-listening, willing to agree to anything Merlin says in the state he's in right now. He finishes unlocking one shackle and slowly and gently lets down Merlin's arm, rubbing the blood back into Merlin's pale hand all the while. (He tries to ignore the thin and bruised and bloody wrist.) He moves onto the other shackle.
"Morgana wanted...information," Merlin says.
"On what?" Arthur asks, brows furrowed. "What information could you possibly have?"
Merlin laughs bitterly, and Arthur does not like the sound of that at all. "Y'know," he says, "your sleeping habits, that added hole on your belt..."
"Merlin!" Arthur says, but he laughs a little too, because maybe a bit of Merlin is somewhere in this beat up body.
Merlin has survived so much already. Arthur should have expected this.
But it's difficult to remember, sometimes, that Merlin is just as capable as Arthur and the knights. Maybe not physically (certainly not now), but in all the other ways that matter. He has a strong, sharp, stubborn mind, and he cares, and he is so kind, and Arthur doesn't know what he did to deserve him (not that he'd ever tell Merlin that).
"I didn't give her anything," Merlin says with a sudden sense of urgency. "I promise I didn't."
"Of course you didn't," Arthur assures him.
"Arthur, I really didn't."
"I believe you."
"I'm sorry, Arthur. She's gone now. She left when she figured out I wouldn't give her anything."
"You don't need to be sorry for that," Arthur says as he unlocks the second shackle and lets down that arm just as carefully as he did the other. Merlin leans heavily into Arthur, and Arthur, scarily, has no trouble supporting his weight.
Merlin sighs into his chest. "Knew you'd come," he says, eyes closed, completely trusting of Arthur.
Arthur swallows. He truly doesn't know what he did to deserve Merlin.
"Just hold on," he says in lieu of all the thoughts swirling through his head. He scoops Merlin into his arms, and while Merlin would usually protest quite immensely, he does not do so now. He simply lays his head on Arthur's shoulder, forehead pressed into the side of Arthur's neck, and drifts. Arthur feels the fever emanating from Merlin's skin and Merlin's even breaths against his chin.
He tightens his hold on ever faithful, ever good Merlin, and walks out of the dark and the gloom, head bent towards his friend to watch the rise and fall of his chest.
Super early update because I'm busy the rest of today! :D