Work Text:
Fandom: Merlin (BBC)
Prompt: “I'll be here to protect you."
There are not enough wine goblets in the world for Merlin to fill to get him away from Lord Hanryard. The man sits at Arthur's side and gesticulates wildly when he’s upset, which is all the time, and slams the goblet back down on the table to finish whatever impassioned statement he’s making now.
The clang of the metal against the table makes Merlin’s head ring, the strong smell of wine and the roar of the crowd forcing his vision to go blurry.
Arthur catches his eye when he goes to refill the goblet again, raising an eyebrow in a silent question. Merlin nods back, resolutely ignoring the shaking of his hands as he pours the wine. Unfortunately for him, Lord Hanryard happens to lean back and a bit of the wine splashes onto his doublet.
“Clumsy boy,” the lord cries and reaches for a napkin, “look what you’ve done!”
“I’m sorry sire, it was a mistake, I—“
“You’re lucky you’re not one of mine,” Hanryard roars, pawing at the stain.
“Please, my lord,” Arthur says quickly, reaching to help fix the issue, “do not concern yourself too much with this fool.”
The glance Arthur shoots Merlin shouldn’t cut him to the bone. It shouldn’t.
“He will cause you no distress for the rest of the night, you have my word.”
Lord Hanryard harrumphs. “In my house, we would throw him in the dungeons for a night."
Arthur laughs and Merlin’s stomach drops.
“I don’t believe that’s necessary. If I did that every time he was clumsy I’d have no servants.”
“Than perhaps a more permanent measure should be taken.” A glint of mirth shines in Hanryard’s eyes and it’s far too sharp for Merlin’s liking. “In order to send a message to the others, we should have him burnt at the stake.”
The sheer ludicrousness of the suggestion sends all who are listening to rolling laughter. All, that is, except for Merlin.
Somewhere he knows the lord is just jesting. Somewhere he knows Arthur would never let him near the pyre.
Somewhere he can still see the hard look in Uther Pendragon’s eyes and Arthur at his shoulder, glaring as the flames rise higher.
He doesn’t know how he ends up outside that night. He imagines he made some excuse and fled the castle walls, running through the forest, trying to get away, escape, go.
The line in his chest snaps taut and he tumbles, end over end, sprawling ungainly onto the banks of the small lake. Curse his magic for bringing him here, and curse his magic for loving Arthur more than it loves him.
The fear collides with the line tethering him to Camelot and twists, knotting his insides together and forcing him to throw up whatever he’d managed to eat that day. The burn of the acid against his throat does nothing to soothe or even dull the ache in his chest and the pounding of his head. He throws up again and again, the fear drawing it from inside of him like poison.
Merlin just manages to avoid passing out in the puddle of vomit.
Strong arms lift him upwards and he groans in protest, the throbbing in his head not adjusting well to the sudden change in position. They shush him gently but don’t stop moving. The slow rocking back and forth tells Merlin they’re on a horse. He opens his eyes and immediately shuts them again, unable to summon the energy to do anything other than lying limply atop his rescuer. A gauntlet has him firmly by the waist and his eyes flutter open again.
Ginger curls, he thinks before he has to let them close again.
Leon always was the most thorough on patrol.
He doesn’t remember the ride back to Camelot, he doesn’t remember getting to Gaius. He remembers the cold cloth draped across his forehead and the concerned babbling of people about him.
“…run?”
“I don’t know.”
Gaius sounds like he’s talking underwater.
“I found him next to a pool of vomit, Gaius, is he sick?”
“He’s terribly weak, but from what I can tell, there’s no illness.”
“Healthy people don’t run several leagues away from Camelot and pass out next to their own vomit, Gaius.” Gwaine sounds angry. Wait, how many people are here?
“Shh, Merlin,” comes Lancelot’s voice from near his head, replacing the now-tepid cloth with a cool one, “rest. It’s alright, you’re safe.”
Merlin can’t move. His brain screams at him to open his eyes, sit up, smile at everyone, tell them he’s fine, he just had a moment of weakness, he’ll be alright. None of his body responds. He’s a prisoner, trapped on the bed with a damn cloth cooling his forehead.
At least it’s not a warm cloth.
A cool hand settles on his cheek. “Hush, now, Merlin,” Lancelot says, “rest. Everything will be better when you wake up.”
And Merlin can’t do anything but obey.
When he regains consciousness, he thinks it’s still the same night. He expects to see the remainders of the feast still being carted away. He doesn’t expect Gaius sitting at his bedside, concern engraved into the wrinkles on his forehead.
“…G’us?” Merlin slurs, his tongue leather in his mouth, “what’s happened?”
“What’s happened, Merlin,” Gaius says, “is that yesterday night you took off outside of Camelot and ran quite a distance before collapsing and vomiting your stomach up. You gave us quite the fright.”
“Wait—“ Merlin shakes his head to clear it— “what do you mean yesterday?”
“The feast was yesterday, Merlin. You were gone the whole night. Sir Leon found you this morning and you’ve been asleep the whole day.”
Arthur is going to kill me.
“Sorry, Gaius,” Merlin mutters, “I won’t do it again.”
“See that you don’t. Hey—“ Gaius lays a hand on his shoulder when he tries to sit up— “don’t do that, you’re not well.”
“’M not sick either,” Merlin protests, trying to get up.
The door opens and Merlin tenses, ready for the fear to seize hold of him again, not ready to face any more angry people.
“Merlin!”
Lancelot rushes inside, his hands replacing Gaius’ and laying Merlin back down. The knight’s face is a barely concealed mess of concern, and looking over his shoulder, Merlin sees the same expression on Leon’s and Gwaine’s faces.
“You gave us quite a scare, Merlin,” Leon says, joining them at the bed, “running off like that and not telling anyone.”
Merlin mutters another apology only for Gwaine to push it aside with a: “don’t apologize, Merlin, we’re not angry. We just want to know what seized you to dash off like that.”
Merlin wavers in Lancelot’s hold, his head starting to throb again. He doesn’t know what to tell them. These knights…they’ve faced far worse than a drunk lord at a feast. Hells, he’s faced far worse than a drunk lord at a feast. How is he supposed to tell them he got spooked like a baby colt and scampered away?
“Merlin?”
Gwaine’s concerned face swims into view. He smiles when he sees Merlin’s eyes fix on him and runs a hand through Merlin’s hair.
“There you are. Come on, don’t hold out on us.” The knight’s tone is teasing, his face anything but. “Will you tell us?”
“You don’t have to, Merlin,” Lancelot murmurs from where he’s still holding Merlin, “but you can, I promise.”
He physically can tell them, Merlin knows he can, but he doesn’t know how. His eyes snap to Leon when he moves closer, sitting down behind Gwaine on the bed.
“Merlin, can I guess what it is? And then if I’m right, you can simply nod your head?”
Merlin nods, not expecting Leon to get it right, expecting to just go with whatever the knight says.
“I was sitting at the table near to you during the feast,” Leon starts and Merlin’s stomach drops cold, “and I heard what Lord Hanryard said to you after he made you spill the wine.”
Lancelot’s grip tightens protectively on Merlin’s arms.
“What,” Gwaine growls, turning toward Leon, “did he say?”
Leon doesn’t take his eyes off Merlin. “He made a very very poor jest about ‘sending a message to the others’ by burning you at the stake.”
Gwaine swears.
“Was that it, Merlin?”
Merlin knows Leon is observant—he’s the one that found him, after all—but he didn’t realize Leon was this observant. He nods dumbly and Leon reaches to calm Gwaine out of his anger.
“I ought to kill him,” Gwaine mutters under his breath.
“Don’t!” Merlin reaches out. “Don’t, it’s not worth it, I—“
“Shh,” Lancelot says, “you’ll work yourself up again. Gwaine wouldn’t really kill him, now would you?”
Gwaine’s expression says yes I absolutely would but he shakes his head. “I’m sorry he did that to you, Merlin, and I’m sorry you felt like you had to run.”
Merlin shakes his head, determined for them not to let him off so easily. “I don’t even understand why it scared me so badly. I shouldn’t be afraid. I’ve been through worse. I’ve survived worse.”
“You have,” Leon cuts in quietly, “and that’s why it scared you.”
Merlin looks up at him in confusion.
“Gaius can probably tell you more,” Leon starts, “but there is a thing that happens to a man when he goes through something harrowing. He does not come out the same the other side. There is no shame in this, Merlin, and no shame in being frightened of something that reminds you of what you’ve been through.”
“You lived as a sorcerer under Uther Pendragon,” Gwaine continues, “let alone all the things you’ve faced with us.”
“And none of us expect you to go it alone,” Lancelot finishes, “even though I suspect you’ve had many more adventures we’re not privy to.”
Merlin can’t look at them. He’s going to cry if he does that and despite the knights’ kind words, he refuses to let himself be weaker than he already has. He has enough to mumble out a quick ‘thank-you’ before Gaius shoos them all out so he can rest some more.
“They spoke the truth,” Gaius says as he feeds Merlin a rich broth, “and you have suffered more at the hands of people like Hanryard than most suffer in many lifetimes.”
Merlin knows they’re right but he forces the fear to stay in the pit of his stomach. He knows he’s suffered. It doesn’t matter. He has to do his duty and that means he can’t be weak. If he’s weak, they will get to Arthur. He can’t let that happen.
He listens to Gaius and drinks the broth. He tries to rest. He can’t.
He rouses from a fitful doze to hear voices outside his door.
“Why did no one think to tell me?”
Merlin flinches, burying his head under the covers. He hates it when Arthur’s this angry.
“I’m sorry, sire, but you have to understand that—“
“I understand that there’s something wrong with my servant and he’s been gone for an entire day.”
I’m sorry, Arthur, I’ll be better.
“He’s unwell, sire.”
“Then why haven’t you fixed him?”
“Because this type of unwellness is not easily fixed. It takes time, sire.”
There’s a pause. Merlin knows Arthur’s going to want to come in here. Valiantly ignoring the throbbing in his head and the pit that threatens to swallow his stomach, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands. He doesn’t make it to the end of the bed before collapsing again.
He’s too weak. He can’t do anything but sit on the end of the bed, facing the door, head bowed, awaiting his judgment.
The stairs outside his room creak under the weight of someone heavy. The doorknob creaks.
Merlin braces himself for the shout he knows is coming. He bites his lip to stifle whatever noises crowd at the back of his throat. Unbidden, tears roll down his cheeks and he drops his head further, chin against his chest.
The door closes softly and he’s in the room now.
Merlin’s skin prickles as Arthur gets closer, magic thrumming in his veins, reaching out towards Arthur as he kneels—wait, kneels?—on the floor at Merlin’s feet. Merlin twists his hands into the tunic in his lap and waits. A warm hand lifts itself to Merlin’s head and he obeys, lifting his head but squeezing his eyes firmly shut. He won’t look at the rage or disgust on Arthur’s face. He won’t.
A gentle thumb wipes away his tears, so soft that Merlin wonders if it’s his imagination. It persists, tenderly moving from one side to the other, across his cheeks.
Merlin opens his eyes.
Arthur’s there, kneeling on the stone floor, looking up at Merlin. There is not a shred of anger or disgust on his face. Arthur smiles.
“Hello, Merlin.”
Merlin can’t respond.
“Where’ve you been,” Arthur continues, the smile still there, voice still soft, “I had to dress myself this morning.”
It’s a joke, Merlin knows it’s a joke. Arthur’s still wearing his white sleep shirt. And just that, that little reminder that Merlin’s too weak to do his job draws more tears.
A comforting noise escapes Arthur’s throat and he reaches up to take Merlin’s face in both hands. “Don’t, Merlin, please.”
“I’m sorry,” Merlin mutters through the hot tears burning streaks down his face, “I know you think it a weakness.”
“Oh, Merlin…” Arthur stands, pulling Merlin close to him. “Is that what you’re worried about?”
Merlin nods against the soft cotton of Arthur’s shirt.
“Leon came and found me,” Arthur murmurs, pulling back and continue to stoke Merlin’s tears away, “and explained what happened.”
“I’m sorry, I won’t let it get to me next time, I—“
“Shh-shh-shh.” Arthur lays a finger lightly against his lips. “Let me talk for a moment, alright?”
Merlin shushes.
“Thank you. Leon told me what happened. He also told me you didn’t want to tell them when they asked you what happened.” Arthur cups Merlin’s jaw. “You know I would never do that, right?”
Merlin nods as best he can against Arthur’s palm.
“Good,” Arthur sighs, a relieved smile covering his face. “But that’s not it, is it?”
Merlin shakes his head, forcing himself to pry away from Arthur’s gentle touches. If Arthur keeps doing that he’s going to fall apart and he can’t be that weak. Not for Arthur.
But Arthur is fast and much stronger than Merlin. He’s caught in a firm grip, one of Arthur’s legs resting next to him on the bed, cutting off his escape. The hold doesn’t hurt. Arthur wouldn’t hurt him.
“Tell me?”
And Merlin can’t say no to the sincere, vulnerable hint to Arthur’s voice. He swallows painfully and lets the whole horrible tale spill out of him. How he can’t be as weak as he was the night of the feast. How he can’t understand why he was so frightened by that stupid, stupid joke. How he’s sorry he’s made Arthur worry about finding his servant weeping like a newly minted squire away from home for the first time.
Arthur doesn’t say anything until Merlin’s done, just holds him tight. He coaxes Merlin’s gaze back to his and the warmth shining from his eyes washes over Merlin.
“You’re allowed to be weak, Merlin.” Arthur shushes him when he tries to protest. “You aren’t weak, Merlin, not by a long shot. You’re one of the strongest men I know.”
Arthur rests his weight more firmly in Merlin’s lap, holding him close. “But you are allowed to give yourself a break. I’ll be here to protect you.”
For a frightening moment, Merlin’s worried Arthur’s got this all wrong. Then Arthur bends down to intercept a stray tear with a kiss and Merlin can’t do it anymore.
He sobs, burying his face in Arthur’s chest. Arthur weathers the storm with no complaints, just softly encourages Merlin that it’s alright, he doesn’t have to be strong right now, he’s allowed this moment of weakness.
When it’s over, and Merlin draws away, he can’t let go of where his hands are tangled in Arthur’s sleep shirt. Arthur looks down, mouth opening to make a soft jab at him when he frowns.
“Did this happen on that run too,” he asks, gently disentangling one of Merlin’s hands from the death grip, “did you fall?”
Merlin looks at the scratches and cuts that mar the tips of his fingers. “Yes.”
Arthur lifts his hand to his mouth, pressing gentle kisses to each of the cuts. When he pulls Merlin’s hand away to see his work, there isn’t a mark on it.
“I didn’t know you could heal.”
“Me neither.”
Arthur smiles. “Your magic really does like me, hmm?”
Merlin blushes. “More than it likes me someday.”
Arthur chuckles which turns into a full laugh when Merlin blushes harder. He reaches out to gently tap Merlin’s cheek. “Why did you go redder?”
“I, um, did they tell you why I couldn’t go any farther?”
Arthur adjusts his weight and Merlin is forcibly reminded that Arthur’s still halfway to sitting on his lap. “Apart from the vomit, no.”
“It was, um,” Merlin stutters, “my magic. It wouldn’t let me get any farther away from you.”
Arthur smiles. “Well, then how about this. I’ll stay right here, so your magic is happy, and you get some rest.”
“R-right here?”
Arthur rolls his eyes fondly and gets Merlin laying down with his head in Arthur’s lap. “Better?”
Merlin’s eyes are already closing. “Mhmm.”
“Good.” Arthur’s hand runs through Merlin’s hair and he tangles his free hand through Merlin’s. “Now rest, Merlin. You’ve earned it.”