Chapter Text
When Merlin had first arrived in Camelot, it had been a shock in many ways. This was only natural, of course, seeing as Ealdor was about as different from the large city as it could be. The first thing that struck him, even as he first ventured through the lower town on that very first week, was how no one seemed to touch. In Camelot, people existed separate from each other, even as they were crowded together like rats in nest. They went about their own days, bustling about, brushing past but never lingering, like separate streams of water that didn't cross. In Ealdor, touch always lingered. There were only so many of them living in that village, and as such, human contact was an important resource, not to be taken for granted.
He had learned, over time, of a firm network of social conventions that had first alluded him when he had first ventured to the city. It was this network, invisible to the unknowing eye, that kept people separate from each other, never touching. Women and men didn't embrace, lest an onlooker think they were being improper. Those of differing social status touched even less. To Merlin, it seemed as if everyone acted as though an unseen barrier stood between them and every other person. It was as baffling as it was frustrating.
The second thing that struck Merlin on that first week in Camelot had been the Crown Prince. With a mace. This had taught Merlin his second lesson about what living in Camelot would be like. Namely, that it would be painful.
His work as Arthur's manservant (and begrudging friend) left him with aches that haunted him deep into the night, sometimes keeping him from his well needed sleep. Magical pursuits and attackers left him burned, poisoned, thrown against walls, and generally tossed about like a rag on a string. Bandits and mercenaries (of which there seemed to be a never ending supply) came with knives and swords and all sorts of brutish weaponry, and while he tried his best to stay away from the central chaos of battle, he couldn't always avoid the occasional blade aimed his way. It was altogether awful, and his body simply could not keep up. He found himself drained of energy constantly, his eyes drooping and his bones creaking despite his youth. One night, only a few months after his arrival, he had taken off his tunic and had been shocked to find a number of scars on his skin that had not been there before. Not a huge amount, but it was still a drastic change. From that point on, he took more care in who was present before he removed his tunic. Most of the marks were benign, but some (and certainly the quantity) would be hard to explain away.
All this, Merlin could manage. Even as his body protested, and his joints would scream at him on occasion, he still got up and went about his day as if he were in perfect health (though he made sure to complain plenty to whoever would listen, and to Arthur especially, though he had to dodge pillows and goblets thrown at his head more than once). It was grueling, and unthankful work, but he pushed through. Somehow, he continued, spurred on only by grit and the strength of his character.
Then a particular banquet changed things.
It had been a day beyond hell. Merlin had only been Arthur's manservant for a few months, bordering on half a year. Arthur had been forced by his father to sit through meeting after meeting, all the while being criticized by the king for every minor detail of his countenance. Arthur, of course, being the absolute prat he was (Merlin had no clue how he put up with the man) took out his frustrations by ordering Merlin about like a freight horse, giving him task after task to perform until his feet felt like lead and his muscles shook. When the prince had commanded Merlin to polish his sword for the fourth time that day, claiming he still hadn't done it right, the warlock had snapped. He'd called Arthur a right prat, and a spoiled ass, and all manner of other things before storming from his chambers. Arthur had slammed the door quite forcefully behind him, but not before informing him he would be spending the next day in the stocks. "Good!" Merlin had spun and replied to the shut door. "At least then I'll be far away from you and your- your boorishness!"
He hadn't received a reply.
As he made his way quite angrily into Gaius's chambers, the old physician looked up in surprise.
"Merlin?" He called out. "Has Arthur dismissed you already? It's barely late afternoon."
At the mention of the prince, Merlin scowled. "I dismissed myself," he said, sitting down on a stool by Gaius, then almost immediately rising to pace restlessly back and forth.
"He's hopeless, Gaius," he found himself sputtering. "One day, he's a royal knight of Camelot, all brave and honourable, and the next, he's a tottering child who throws a fit when things don't go his way! It's like he hasn't grown a day since I met him. I care for him, I really do, but by the gods, I can't stand him." Merlin slumped back on his stool, his arms crossed over his chest. Gaius looked at him dryly, his book open but presently forgotten.
"If you're quite done, I'll remind you you're talking about your future king," the physician scolded. Merlin slumped further in his seat. The thought of Arthur on the throne currently filled him with little more than dread.
Gaius sighed and closed his tome.
"I suppose then, if you're not helping the prince prepare for the banquet, you can make yourself busy with the rest of the castle. No use dilly-dallying when there's things to be done. I'm sure the head of staff will put you to good use."
But Merlin remained seated. If anything, he looked even more defeated, and a little guilty too. Gaius raised an eyebrow.
"Or did you forget about the feast tonight?" he guessed.
Merlin groaned. "I would have remembered, had he not made me do a week's worth of chores in a single day!" he cried. Gaius remained unmoved. Merlin swore to himself and stood.
"Damn that Arthur," he muttered, as he turned to the door.
"Is it wise to return to him so soon? Perhaps it would be advisable to wait until your tempers have cooled off," Gaius called.
"It's not like I want to," Merlin snapped. "But it's not like the spoiled lout can dress himself!"
In all truth, dressing Arthur was a task Merlin likely despised the least. It was strange, how a chore that put him in such close proximity with the source of most of his stress relaxed him tremendously. Perhaps it was because, in Camelot, the normal embraces and displays of affection that were common in Ealdor were as foreign as magic was. Merlin found himself craving something beyond the occasional hand on his shoulder, or the meagerest of brushes with another person's skin. He found that without the touch of another soul, he was adrift, a physical presence without anything physical to ground him. Though dressing Arthur was a far cry from the open affection of his home, it still provided him with an anchor. It gave him an excuse to run his hand across his shoulders (to smooth the creases, naturally), or to graze his fingers ever so gently across the man's neck (only ever on accident while adjusting his collar, of course). It also allowed Merlin the secret pleasure of seeing Arthur in a state of undress, which was definitely a benefit. The man may have been an absolute twat, but none could deny him his looks. Merlin certainly couldn't.
But when he reached the door to Arthur's chambers, a halfhearted apology on his lips. he was met with a guard. When he tried to step forward to enter, his path was blocked.
"His Majesty has forbade anyone from entering," the guard informed him. "No one's to go in." He sounded quite snappish, which indicated to Merlin that his royal majesty had not been in the best of moods when he'd given the guard his instructions.
Merlin found himself strangely disappointed for a moment, before the feeling was replaced with newfound frustration. Not only had Arthur worked him like a dog, now he'd thrown him out like a stray.
"Well, what am I meant to do, then?" he huffed.
A thud sounded on the door, as if something had been thrown at it from the other side. Merlin jumped.
"Go wait on the knights for all I care!" came Arthur's voice from inside the room. "Their tables are a plenty distance from me and my boorishness."
Merlin felt a touch of guilt, but it was quickly swallowed by anger.
"Good luck seeing past your own nose to lace up your trousers!" he called back, before turning on his heel and stomping away. The guard watched him go, his mouth slightly agape.
Merlin did indeed wait on the knights that evening. He ran around, staggering on his tired feet, refilling cups of wine and fetching fixings. As Arthur entered, he was extremely satisfied to see that the foolish prince had done up his buttons incorrectly. He was less pleased when Arthur pointedly refused to look his way for the entirety of the banquet.
Waiting on the knights was rough work. For one, there were a lot more of them than just one of Arthur. He was called to and fro, pulling himself on his aching legs with a great deal of difficulty. The other servants flitted about around him, serving the knights as well as the rest of the hall. None seemed as tired as Merlin felt. It only got worse as the night progressed, until he was stumbling instead of walking, and the noise of the banquet was like waves in his ears. He refilled cup after cup, every so often glancing at the head table to where Arthur sat.
Unfortunately, later into the night, Merlin began to falter. While topping off wine, his hand slipped, and the entire jug went clattering to the floor. On it's way down, much of the wine found itself splashed onto the knight whom Merlin had been tending to.
"Sorry, Sir, I'll get-" Merlin began to stammer, but he never got to finish. His sentence was interrupted as his head was whipped to one side and a furious pain exploded at his jaw. He staggered back and held his face, looking in shock at the knight who had struck him. Sir Kalin, one of the older knights, glared at him in total outrage, his hand still raised.
"Useless boy!" he snarled, his cheeked flushed with wine. "Learn to hold a jug before you go tottering around with one in your hands." He took a cloth from the table and wiped his hand, as if touching Merlin's skin had debased him somehow. "Well," he spat, "what do you have to say for yourself, whelp?"
Merlin touched his hand to his cheek, still in shock. "You hit me," he replied, dumbstruck. Never before in his time in Camelot had someone struck him so flippantly. The occasional punch to the shoulder, or hearty clap on the back, yes, but this was different. Even Arthur's occasional bouts of violence mostly consisted of him getting tripped or having things thrown his way (which he typically dodged). This had been a full blown strike.
Sir Kalin scowled at his response. He opened his mouth to speak, but another servant stepped before Merlin, her head already bowed forward. Merlin was quite relieved to see that it was Gwen, surely here to come to his aid. But when she spoke, it wasn't to defend him.
"Pardon me, Sir," she said reverently, her gaze fixed to the floor. "Merlin meant no harm, he is simply harebrained and somewhat clumsy. I'll have this cleaned up immediately."
Sir Kalin closed his mouth. His scowl deepened, but he nodded at Gwen, who immediately grabbed Merlin's wrist and dragged him off.
"Harebrained?" Merlin asked, rather insulted.
Gwen glanced behind her before pulling him out of the hall and into the corridor. "It's better I insult you first, then he feels less inclined to do so," she replied in a hushed voice. She peered around, and finding no one else present, her shoulders relaxed. "I am sorry, though," she said, and it sounded like she meant it. "Sir Kalin's a right horror when he's drunk. Let me see your face."
She tilted his head to the side, guiding his cheek with her hand. Despite the twinge of pain it caused, the small touch warmed him tremendously.
"It'll likely bruise, but it'll be gone in about a week, I should think. You're lucky."
Merlin didn't feel too lucky.
"What now, Gwen?" he asked. "What should we do?"
Gwen bunched her eyebrows.
"Do? About what?"
"About Sir Kalin." He gestured to the spot of the injury. "What should we do? Who do we tell?"
Her eyebrows scrunched further.
"There's no one to tell, Merlin," she retorted. "He's a knight. It's in his right to discipline the staff the way he sees fit."
Merlin frowned. "You're joking."
Gwen tilted her head. "Why would that be a joke?"
"Because- Gwen, he hit me. Hard. Like I was just- like a bent needle that needed to be hammered back into shape."
"Well, I'm sure to the righteous and honorable Sir Kalin, there's hardly a difference between a needle and a servant," Gwen said, a hint of disapproval in her voice.
Merlin was astounded. "So, what, he gets to treat the servants like his own personal punching bag every time we so much as trip?"
Gwen's lips pressed together. "I'm not saying it's right, but it's how things are. And you'll learn to avoid the worst of it the longer you're here. Trust me," she assured him.
Merlin was not assured. He felt like keeling over. Of all the things he had learned about Camelot, this was by far the worst. Obviously, Gwen saw the horror on his face, and hers softened.
"Why don't you take the rest of the night off," she offered, gently resting her hand on his forearm. It was hardly proper, but Gwen had always seemed to care more about their friendship than propriety. Distraught, Merlin nodded, and his face ached with the motion. When she removed her hand, it felt like a cloak had been ripped from his shoulders once again, exposing him to the harsh and cold wind. He desperately wished for it back.
Gwen waved down another servant hurrying down the corridor and called him over. "Dagne," she said, "could you fetch some rags for the knights table? And for the rest of the night, could you take over Merlin's place there?"
Dagne nodded, looking slightly confused. He glanced at Merlin, his eyes flitting to his jaw, where no doubt a mark was beginning to form. Understanding cleared his face.
"Sir Boforn?" he asked.
Gwen shook her head. "Sir Kalin."
Dagne nodded. "Be glad it wasn't Boforn. He packs a nasty punch, that one." And then he was off to the hall. Merlin blinked as he strode away.
"I'll see to it that the others know he's in one of his moods," Gwen prattled on, as if this situation was entirely normal. She glanced at Merlin one last time, and frowned in that concerned way of hers.
"What are you still doing here? Go on, then. Get some rest." she said. "You look like you've been on your feet for a week straight." Merlin nodded and turned to leave, his exhaustion getting the better of him. "I'll save you one of the honey squares!" she whispered down the hall as he went. Then she turned back to the banquet and made her way inside.
That night, Merlin found himself unable to sleep for quite some time, despite his pounding head.
The next day, Arthur did in fact have Merlin put in the stocks, as promised, although he only had him stay for half the day instead of the full. When he was done, he was even given the rest of the day off, which was as close to an apology Arthur seemed capable of giving. Still, despite the prince's oh-so-generous act of mercy, the stocks were an absolute nightmare. Adding to the pain of his unending chores yesterday, he now had a blooming bruise on his face, not to mention the shallow but nasty cut on his side he was still nursing from a run in with a sorcerer last week (another future scar to add to the growing pile, no doubt). Combined with the weight of the heavy stocks pulling at his neck and back for hours, Merlin found he could hardly move a muscle without some kind of agony ripping through him. No amount of Gaius's tonics or salves quelled the pain. For the most of the remainder of the day, he lay in his cot, muscle spasms racing up his legs and back. He groaned at the thought of having to return to working the next day.
This simply won't do, he thought to himself miserably. Should something happen to Arthur while I'm in this state, I'll be as useful as a dull sword wrapped in layers of cloth. Not to mention, Arthur will have no end of complaints about how lazy I am.
He had to find something that would help. And he knew just where to look.
When Gaius returned from a check in with one of the castle cooks, Merlin was still holed up in his room, quiet as a mouse. This hardly ever bode well, so Gaius approached his door and knocked, calling out to his ward.
"It's just me," assured the physician, in case something magical was afoot.
There was a pause. "Come in!" came the reply.
Merlin was sat on his bedroom floor, his large book of spells open on his lap. He hardly seemed to notice Gaius's entry, but soon he peeled his eyes up from his tome and looked to his mentor with a bright spark in his eyes, as he always had when matters of magic were concerned. Gaius was warmed to see it.
"I found something," he said, excitement evident in his voice.
"Does this something have to do with the four empty vials of healing salve that are currently on your floor?" Gaius asked, eyebrow raised. Merlin didn't seem to hear him.
"It's a spell that erases one's pain," he exclaimed, shifting to get up and then wincing, seemingly thinking better of it.
Gaius frowned. "It erases pain entirely? Surely that's impossible." Gaius understood well how magic operated. One thing could not be removed completely without something else added to balance the scales.
Merlin shrugged. "Well, more accurately, it delays pain. For as long as the spell is active, the subject will feel no physical pain, whether it be inflicted during the duration of the spell's activation or beforehand. It's perfect!"
Gaius frowned. "And what about after the spell wears off?"
Merlin waved his hand dismissively
"Oh, it comes back. It's worse than before, but not for long. It lasts for much less time. It gets - oh what's the word- condensed."
"Condensed?" Gaius repeated. Merlin nodded, smiling brightly. Gaius sighed, deep and prolonged, and went to sit on Merlin's cot.
"Merlin," he began, "as a physician, I must advise you against this."
Merlin frowned. "I figured you would protest, but what does it have to do with you being a physician?"
"Pain is the body's alarm system, Merlin," the old man explained. "It exists to inform you when something is wrong. Without it, you are left defenseless and ignorant of any plight you may be facing. Imagine, if you will, that the citadel caught aflame, but no alarm bells were raised. No one cried out. How would you know to defend it? In that way, pain is the first and foremost tool of a physician. It is the first piece of information I am given, and it leads me to the problem I must solve. Without it, I would be blind."
Merlin thought about this briefly. "I won't be using the spell everyday," he assured Gaius. "Only in dire emergencies. Like tomorrow is sure to be. I swear I'll be careful."
"I don't doubt you'll try your best to employ caution, my boy. I do, however, doubt that you'll succeed."
Merlin huffed.
"I'll be fine, Gaius," he said, shutting his book with a snap. "I'm the most important warlock to ever exist, apparently. I think I know what I'm doing."
Gaius didn't reply to that, only arched one eyebrow high into the air and looked at Merlin.
"Oh, shut up," Merlin grumbled.
"I didn't say anything," the man replied. Then he got up from the bed, his knees creaking. "When this comes to bite you in the backside, Merlin," he said as he walked to the door, "let it be known that I tried to warn you as best I could."
The next morning, as Merlin left to wake the prince, he found himself feeling lighter than he had in months. He had woken up stiff legged and indescribably sore, his face aching something awful, but the spell had worked wonders. He pinched himself, hard, and was delighted when no pain came of it. He felt the pressure, yes, but no bite followed.
Arthur was sleeping peacefully when Merlin arrived, his blond hair tousled by rest. He relished the sight for a few moments, before flinging open the curtains to let in the light. The prince groaned.
"Must you do that every morning?" he cursed, covering his face with his hand.
"If you continue going to sleep, then I'll be forced to keep waking you, sire. Really, if you think about it, it's all your fault."
Merlin set about tidying the room as Arthur got up. He whistled as he moved, setting down the basin for Arthur to wash his face, and then moving to his closet to pick out clothes.
"You're cheery today," Arthur grumbled. "Had fun lazing about yesterday? It seems to have put you in a good mood."
"Oh yes, certainly," Merlin quipped. "The stocks were as comfortable as ever. I had plenty of time to relax while being pelted with fruit."
He set out a pair of breeches and a fetching tunic, one that was dyed a striking shade of burgundy. When he turned, Arthur was staring at him.
"What's that?" the prince asked, pointing. Merlin first looked behind him, before realizing Arthur was pointing at him.
"What's what?" he replied.
Arthur scowled. "On your face, Merlin. That great big nasty looking bruise."
Merlin frowned. He'd nearly forgotten all about the contusion, now that its presence was not causing him pain. "You said it yourself. It's a bruise."
"Yes, well, how'd you get it?" Arthur huffed, clearly losing his patience.
Merlin thought back to the night before, at the feast. He recalled how Gwen and Dagne had reacted to the blow, how normal it had seemed to them. Just another part of living in Camelot he had to adapt to. Such things were custom here. If he told Arthur the truth, surely he'd get made fun of and scolded for being clumsy again. Clearly, the act of hitting a servant held little weight to the nobility. Why should Arthur be any different?
"Someone hit me with something while I was in the stocks," Merlin replied, the lie slipping off his tongue like water. "A rock, I think. It doesn't hurt much."
"Are you sure it's fine?" Arthur asked. His voice sounded odd. If Merlin didn't know better, he'd say the prince looked unnerved.
Merlin shrugged. "I hardly even feel it."
The rest of the day was remarkably typical, save for the fact that it was painless. When the pain finally returned, he was already in bed, waiting for it to come. It hit him suddenly and harshly, and his muscles tensed. It was quite awful, hitting him in aching waves for well over an hour. Gaius stood by his door on occasion, watching him groan and gasp with sympathy but not moving in to help. This was magic simply returning what it had taken. No physician's hand could help him through it. When it was over, Merlin lay in a sweaty pile, sore and exhausted. His limbs ached and his face smarted, but the worst of it was over. He'd be able to return to work tomorrow.
After that day, despite his threats, Arthur did not send Merlin to the stocks again.
Life went on, as life tends to do. The cut to Merlin's side did indeed scar over, and was joined by many others over time. Nimueh's burn marred his chest. Another burn curled on his side. A spiderweb like scar spread across his shoulder, caused by a particularly nasty spell he hadn't dodged in time. More and more, they piled on.
He noticed, after the banquet, how the other servants tiptoed around certain nobles. How they retreated like mice whenever certain knights had too much to drink. Sir Kalin and Sir Boforn were the worst of the bunch. He soon learned that Boforn did, in fact, pack a worse punch than Kalin did, and a had strong kick to match. Whenever he could, he intervened when the other staff members were being scolded, bearing the brunt of the beatings himself when he wasn't at Arthur's side. When he couldn't do that, he would interrupt as Gwen had done for him, diverting their attentions elsewhere and pulling the servant away. Sir Kalin and Boforn took a dislike towards him immediately for his actions, a dislike they expressed quite liberally. They soon began to seek him out specifically, in lieu of waiting for him to interrupt them. Arthur, too, wasn't pleased when his manservant went running off and came back with no explanation to where he had disappeared to, sometimes out of breath and heavily winded. But Arthur's wrath was short lived, and tempered the longer Merlin stayed in Camelot. He hardly ever tripped him anymore.
Kalin and Boforn, on the other hand, had no such reservations. Kalin would pinch him in the hallway as he passed, hard enough to bruise. Boforn would grab his arm and twist it behind his back at odd angles. They would punch and kick when they could, but were more careful to only leave marks where his clothes would cover them. They learned to do that after Arthur had loudly remarked during training one afternoon that Merlin needed to be more cautious, since the bruises he amassed were truly impressive in their quantity. At first, Merlin bit back at the knights, with words and indignation, but never with blows. Experience from the other boys his age in Ealdor (with the exception of Will) taught him that striking back only ever made things worse. Over time, though, he just came to accept it as another part of Camelot, like the consistent lack of touch that left him feeling cold and lifeless, or the way the castle creaked and groaned late at night.
When the two knights were particularly bad, Merlin would think back to when Matilda, one of the scullery maids, had come to speak with him one night. She whispered when she spoke, even in the confines of Gaius's empty chambers, as if her very voice could call trouble her way. She'd told him how she had previously been Kalin and Boforn's favorite, and how they'd stopped once they'd moved on to Merlin. She had given him a parcel of beautiful embroidered cloth, and had told him he could come to her anytime he needed to. "I know what they get like," she'd whispered. "And I know the best ways to avoid them. I'm here if you need." Her hand had reached out cautiously then, and taken his in hers. It was not a romantic gesture, nor did it come from friendship, but rather it was an expression of shared pain. It had warmed him to his very core.
Regardless of what Gaius would have claimed, Merlin did in fact value his counsel. He used the pain delaying spell sparingly, only when he deemed it an absolute necessity. He used it the day after a visiting noble he was serving had called him insubordinate and beat him with a belt. The man's face when Merlin had entered his chambers the next day, carrying his breakfast, a slight skip in his step and not a hint of pain about him, was well worth the agony that had come later on. A few times, he used it simply to get through a particularly tough day, like he had that first time. Using it allowed him to forget, for a brief stretch, that his body was comprised of various scars and aches, and that it was useful only because of that fact. He dreaded the evenings when his pain would return to him tenfold, but for the most part, he allowed himself the joy of not thinking about his pain at all whenever the spell was active. He had only slipped up once, when he'd cut his hand while slicing an apple and had only noticed when he'd popped a slice into his mouth and tasted blood. After that, he had been more careful.
Arthur, Merlin found, had improved gradually since his start in Camelot. For one, the annoying prat had proven he could emote beyond frustration, anger, and jackassery, which was honestly a relief. He also, for all of his complaining about Merlin, never really punished him all that much for his constant back talk. In fact, he seemed to almost relish it at times, their words flying back and forth like a complex game of catch. It was an activity Merlin was sure the prince loved just as much as he did, even if it sometimes devolved into petty spats. But for the most part, Merlin had come to enjoy the other man's company greatly. He'd catch himself staring at Arthur's face, imagining the feel of his hair across his skin or the warmth of his hands. He thought about his magic, and dreamed of a future where he could show himself to Arthur, fully uncloaked. He thought of it well into the night, and by the time sleep found him, his mind had often wandered to other thoughts about the prince, thoughts that were just as private. Merlin found himself dressing Arthur slower, taking more time each morning to clothe him, to the point that Arthur would sometimes snap at him to get on with it. But if he ever noticed how Merlin would press his hand up to his back, or let his fingers linger longer than they were meant to, he never mentioned it aloud.
And then there was magic, and destiny, of course, among all the other things. Things that gave Merlin headaches and left him with more scars and bruises than he knew how to handle.
Well over a year had passed since Merlin had first arrived in Camelot. For the past month or so, Merlin had enjoyed a rare but well earned bout of peace, lacking all the usual bandit attacks and magical encounters. It made him antsy, waiting around for something to go horribly wrong as it always had a habit of doing. But as the calm spell persisted, he convinced himself to try enjoying whatever rest he could find. Unfortunately, Kalin and Boforn had other plans.
The two knights had been particularly agriegous in the last two weeks. Merlin had been forced to use the pain delaying spell thrice in that time, if only to be able to get up and move around each morning. Kalin typically reserved his tormentation of Merlin for when he'd had a spot of wine in him, but lately he'd adopted Boforn's approach, which allowed for much more flexibility. Boforn, meanwhile, had on occasion taken to following Merlin around while he went about his chores. He'd hover close by, waiting for Merlin to drop something or trip, and then he'd strike him under the guise of disciplinary action. Of course, having a knight over his shoulder at all times made Merlin far more clumsy than he normally was, leading to more bruises than he knew what to do with.
Arthur never seemed to notice why Merlin would return later than was typical, blaming it only on his laziness and rolling his eyes. If he ever saw how the other servants were treated, he didn't mention it. Arthur himself never lay a hand on any of the other staff, the exception being Merlin. When he was occasionally physical with his manservant, it was only ever playful cuffs on the shoulder or back, or perhaps a book thrown at his head, easily sidestepped. Merlin would scoff and call him names, to which Arthur would easily retort with insults of his own. Strangely, Merlin never minded the jabs and hits thrown his way if they were given by Arthur's hand. They were far more gentle than they were violent, and it did not escape him that Arthur only ever behaved that way around someone he valued. Perhaps even the prince felt the isolation that came from lack of touch. Perhaps these small acts of playful violence were his way of combating that. Merlin found himself wishing it would happen more.
Sir Kalin and Sir Boforn seemed to mind it quite a lot.
It seemed improper to them, that the prince would lower himself in such a way as to treat a mere serving boy with the same comraderie he shared with his favorite knights. Not at all insignificant was the fact that they were never given the same treatment. Of course, they would never bad mouth the prince to his face, or tell him the way he went about things was wrong. No, instead they set about "correcting" Merlin's behavior themselves.
After a month of relative peace, their efforts became more focused.
It was a warm summer afternoon, the heat pressing down but cooled slightly by a breeze that rushed by every so often. Arthur and the knights stood in the hot sun, running drills and practicing their footwork. The future king's face glistened with sweat, more from the warmth than the exercise, and Merlin was having quite a good time enjoying the view it offered. At least, he enjoyed it as much as he could, in between whacks of a practice blade against the thick padding he was holding. They were practicing adapting to moving targets, so Merlin didn't even have the benefit of staying still as he was struck. The dense pillow cushioned most of the force, but each time a blow landed, the bruises across his body throbbed something fierce. His head pounded and his feet hurt. Still, much to the chagrin of certain knights, he tossed out a sporadic insult to keep his prince motivated and sharp. Also in part to get back at him for forcing him into practice in the first place, despite him not being a knight.
Arthur smacked the pillow with nearly his full strength, sending Merlin stumbling backwards and falling to the earthen floor.
"The strength of a flea and the brain of one too," Arthur said, triumphantly quoting one of Merlin's earlier remarks. "And yet it seems this flea still bests you every chance he gets. What do you have to say to that, Merlin?"
Merlin panted where he sat, his backside and his arms both stinging.
"Are you sure it wasn't just the wind?" he bit back. "There was a gust just before I tipped over. I'm sure you had nothing to do with it."
Arthur rolled his eyes, giving Merlin a moment's rest on the ground. He pushed his sweat soaked hair from his brow, gazing out to his knights, some of whom had been somewhat distracted by the prince and his servant's banter.
"Oi, Sir Boforn," he called out, "remember to keep your legs moving. Your footwork looks worse than Merlin's, for goodness sake."
The knight in question had a sour look on his face, which turned darker with Arthur's instruction. He replied with a curt "Yes, sire," and moved to correct his footing. His expression only worsened as Arthur shed his gloves, bent over to grasp Merlin's forearm, and pulled his manservant up to his feet.
Arthur's hands were warm and damp with sweat, his grip strong and confident. He easily helped lift Merlin, and Merlin stumbled slightly from the force of the pull. For a brief moment, neither let go of the other's arm, as if waiting for the other to do so first. Then the moment lifted, and they broke away from each other, Merlin already grieving the lost contact. He rubbed his fingers to his palm, as if cementing the feeling of Arthur in that place. Hidden by his side, Arthur's hand curled into a gentle fist, doing the same.
"You alright there, Merlin?" Arthur asked.
"What? Oh, yes, quite," Merlin replied, pulling himself from his thoughts. "Just tired, is all."
"Lazy's more like it," Arther retorted, the concern melting from his voice, replaced with his usual brashness and prattishness. "You've been asleep on your feet practically all day. I've got just the fix."
Merlin looked at his prince with dread. "If I have to muck out the stables again, I'll leave you a nice gift of horse dung on your pillow," he said.
Behind him, a sword clattered to the ground. Sir Boforn clenched his hand tightly before moving to pick it back up. Merlin could practically feel the heat of his glare on the back of his head.
"You do that," Arthur replied, paying no mind to Boforn, "and I'll have you sleep in it."
"In your bed?"
"Yes. Right beside me, your head in a pile of dung."
Merlin opened his mouth to retort, but he heard a particularly violent smack sound from behind him, and figured perhaps he'd provoked Boforn enough for one day.
"What would you have me do, your majesty?" he asked plainly instead. A small crease formed on Arthur's brow, as if he was confused by Merlin's sudden good manners.
"Are you sure you're alright?" he asked.
"Arthur," Merlin began, "if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were concerned for my well being."
That got him to change his tune. The prince, his cheeks red with a touch more than the heat, scoffed and turned his head. "As if," he replied hotly, and cuffed Merlin on the shoulder for good measure. Merlin tried his best not to flinch. "I just don't want your talents as my servant to lower further, though I hardly think that's possible."
"I'm sure," Merlin replied somewhat smugly. Arthur shot him a look.
"Well, then, since you seem to be in high spirits now," Arthur smiled, "my bath water needs to be drawn up for when I'm done training. You can clean my quarters while you set it up. My sword certainly needs a sharpen. Oh, and once that's all done, you'll need to prepare for the hunting expedition starting tomorrow. The packing's not done."
Merlin groaned.
"Why must we go on another hunting trip? Is the castle not to your comforts?"
Arthur slapped him on the shoulder, pushing him along. "Don't fret, we'll be taking care of the beasts. You'll have nothing to worry your girlish little head about."
Merlin highly doubted that. Hunting trips tended to be vessels for disaster. Even now, he could feel his magic stirring under his skin, warning him of trouble.
Or perhaps that was due to the deathly stare of one of the knights that followed him as he left the courtyard.
Once Arthur's bath had been drawn, and the prince had lowered himself in to soak for some time, Merlin was dismissed from his side to set about doing his other chores. The armory was empty when he arrived, but he still went about sharpening the sword the manual way, not magical, since the space hardly provided privacy. It was repetitive and soothing work, repeatedly running the whetstone along the blade's length. It allowed him time to clear his head.
Not too long after he began, he felt a sense of dread wash over him, his magic stirring once more. Then footsteps signaled the approach of another soul into the armory.
He turned his head, and dropped it back almost immediately.
"Good afternoon, Sir Boforn," he said stiffly. His shoulders seemed a lot tenser than they were just few seconds prior.
The knight didn't reply for a moment, resting with his back to the stone wall and his arms crossed at his chest. The longer the silence dragged on, the more it made Merlin squirm.
"It used to be," Boforn began, his voice calm, "that a servant was forbidden from addressing a knight of Camelot before the knight deigned to address him first."
"Is that so?" Merlin replied, not taking his eye off the blade lest he make a mistake. "When did that change?"
"It hasn't," the knight said coldly. "Not where I am concerned, anyway."
Merlin nodded. "I'll do well to remember that in the future, Sir," he said, his voice as neutral as he could manage.
Boforn pushed off the wall and began to circle around Merlin slowly, like a pacing cat. His footsteps, along with the shhhk shhhk sound of stone pulled across steel, echoed in the empty room.
"It's a marvel you've survived this long in Camelot, what with your lack of proper etiquette," the knight mused. "Someone ought to teach you in full."
"I'm fine, thanks," Merlin answered under his breath.
"Really?" Boforn paused his walking, looking at the warlock. "I should hardly think so, if how you speak to your prince is anything to go by."
That's different, Merlin thought bitterly to himself, Arthur likes when I speak to him that way. But he dared not say that aloud.
Boforn returned to his prowl.
"It's a travesty really," he purred. "But I can hardly blame you, what with your upbringing and all. It's no doubt why you've ended up the way you have."
The sound of the sharpening stopped for a moment before continuing.
"I'm not sure what you mean, Sir," Merlin said.
"Oh, I'm going off assumption, I know," said Boforn, "but just based on your general countenance, I'm assuming you must have been raised by the lowest kind. If something's wrong with the pup, you can be sure something was wrong with the bitch."
Merlin's thoughts flashed to his mother, her kind eyes and loving arms that never closed for him. Anger swelled deep and hot in his chest.
"You take that back," he hissed, turning to Boforn, stone clenched in his white knuckles hand. His rage shimmered and disappeared quick, replaced by apprehension as he registered the smug look of victory upon Boforn's face.
This is what the knight had been waiting for.
"Are you trying to tell me what to do?" Boforn asked. He took a step forward, a sadistic glint in his eye. Merlin took a step back.
"No, Sir, I only-"
"Because it would seem," he pressed forward, "that you've forgotten your place."
Merlin briefly considered using his magic against the larger man, but he knew doing so would be a death sentence. Boforn had been one of Uther's knights, well before Arthur's time. The man had the respect of the king. The stone in his hand clattered to the ground.
"Allow me to teach you a lesson in humility," Boforn spat. He lunged, and Merlin turned to flee, but a hand grabbed at his hair and wrenched back. He grasped at the fingers holding him captive, yelping in shock as his head was pulled violently backwards. Boforn used his newfound grip to throw him to the ground. Merlin's head banged violently against the floor as he hit, the impact ringing loudly in his ears.
"That's better," the man snarled. "Right where you belong."
He landed a kick to Merlin's abdomen. The young servant cried out and curled around himself, trying in vain to protect his torso.
"The hunting trip," he gasped, desperate for an excuse to be spared. "Arthur's expecting me to come. You can't- I need to be well enough to go."
Boforn seemed to consider this for a moment before his lips curled into a cruel smile. "Well then," he said, "I expect you'll have to tell the prince you've fallen ill."
The sole of his boot slammed into Merlin's side, and pain exploded throughout his body. He could barely wheeze, let alone scream. Another kick shortly followed. Then another. And another. Merlin's knees pressed to his chest, his arms cradling his head as he wordlessly took blow after blow. Only soft cries and gasps escaped his lips. His magic coiled in his chest, desperate for a means to protect him, but Merlin kept it contained. The force of one particular kick was so strong, it shoved him across the cold stone floor, and he nearly bit through his tongue to keep from yelling out. He kept himself from biting hard enough to do real damage, but his mouth soon tasted of blood. He waited for another strike to arrive, but instead he was hauled up by his hair, forced to look into Boforn's eyes. His lungs stuttered with the pain, and he found it hard to breathe.
The knight examined him with distaste clear on his face. "You're no better than me," he snapped. "You're nothing but a lowly wretch who knows only to cower and serve, and you've spent far too long pretending otherwise."
"That's me," Merlin gasped. His head hurt from being held up by his hair alone. He could feel the blood in his mouth, and when he smiled, he knew Boforn could see it on his teeth. "A lowly wretch," he spat from a blood stained grin, "A cowering worm."
Despite agreeing with the knight, Boforn seemed unnerved at the sight of Merlin's expression. He grimaced and let the man fall to the floor, then wiped his hand on his shirt as if to chase away his presence.
"I should hope some time on the floor will teach you exactly where your place is in Camelot."
With that, Boforn turned and left the way he'd come, his footsteps echoing in the empty space.
Merlin lay on the cold stone floor, his ribs screaming in pain. There was surely blood on his chin. Each breath caused a new bout of agony to rush through him, so he could only take shallow inhalations, and even those hurt. A blackness entered his vision and left, lasting for what Merlin hoped was only a few seconds, but he couldn't be sure. It could have been longer. He felt like he may be sick on himself if he moved.
He tried desperately to crawl away, to find a wall to support himself so that he could stand. Each movement was hard fought and meager, and was more effort than was worth. After what felt like an hour, but likely was no more than five minutes, he'd barely made progress.
If this was what was normal in Camelot, he wanted to burn the whole city to ashes. Never before had he felt such a kinship with the many sorcerers who threatened to destroy this place.
He glanced at Arthur's sword, still on it's place on the table. Arthur. Who never struck him for his many faults, who laughed at his humour, and who believed in all things honourable and chivalrous. Arthur, who was set to leave for a hunting expedition in the morning, with or without Merlin, where he would be left defenseless against any passing witch or wizard who had a grudge aimed at Camelot. Arthur, who's touch grounded him like no other, an anchor in a perilous sea, who's eyes shone like a clear blue lake under the sun. Arthur, who was (at least according to an annoying and largely unhelpful lizard), his destiny.
Merlin took as deep of a breath as he could and whispered the pain delaying spell to himself. He'd manage.
The relief was near instant. Immediately, his breaths drew out longer, and his head cleared. The throbbing ache of his ribs dulled and then melted away entirely. Wobbling slightly, Merlin pushed himself to his feet, trembling as he righted himself. And then he rushed outside, where he promptly threw up on the grass.
Once that was over and done with, he could straighten his back and walk without issue. He wiped the sick and blood away from his lips. He still felt woozy, as if someone had stuffed wool in his skull, but that, too, was lessening. Merlin flexed his hands and stretched his neck. He wiped some of the dirt and boot marks from his tunic. Then he turned back to the armory, grabbed the fallen stone, and continued sharpening the sword.
That night, when Merlin finally went to bed, sleep came to him easy. Typically, at this time of night, the pain delaying spell would have worn off, leaving him to fend off the aches and scrapes of the day as he settled in for slumber. As it was, he'd conjured the spell so late in the day that his sleep was peaceful and painless for most of the night. A few hours before dawn, that changed.
Merlin was pulled violently and suddenly from a lovely dream (one that involved him and Arthur in Arthur's bed, no dung to be found) when his body decided it was finally time. He snapped awake as his spine arched visciously, his mouth open in a noiseless howl. Every muscle burned. His head throbbed with the force of a dragon's wing beat. It was too much. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. Almost solely moving on instinct, his mouth spat out the words to the spell once again, in an attempt to make it stop, if only for a second of respite.
It did more than provide quick relief. As his pain once again melted away, Merlin lay panting on his cot, eyes fixed to the ceiling. This was a first. Never before had he used the spell two times consecutively. It hadn't been a conscious decision, but was a risky one regardless. Perhaps he should check the book of spells to see if there was any information or warning regarding its repeated use. But before he could fully entertain the thought, the painlessness dragged him back under, pulling him into a peaceful sleep once again. Rest without pain was as rare as snow was in june, and it seemed he could not turn it away when it came to him.
When the morning finally arrived, Merlin awoke with the sun just beginning to kiss the horizon. He lay in bed for a good long while, relishing the lack of aches, and wondered how the day would go. They would be riding out after breakfast, most likely, when the sun was making its upwards crawl to the sky's center. He'd have to wake Arthur soon.
That feeling of wool having been stuffed into his skull had returned, much stronger than it had before. He felt a bit like he did when he drank Gaius's poppy tonic, the one meant for those who's wounds prevented them from sleep or ease of movement. He felt light and heavy all at once, and his limbs felt far from his body. This, surely, was a cause for concern, but for some reason he couldn't bring himself to feel worried.
As he removed last night's tunic, he stared in wonder at his chest and stomach. Mottled blue and black skin stretched across his scarred torso, bruises blooming like violets on pale cobblestone. He poked one, quite hard, and all he felt was the pressure of it. Even that was duller than it should have been. As he flexed his hand open and closed, he realized he could feel only half of what was normal, as if every touch came to him through a thick blanket. He huffed a quiet laugh, marveling at the lack of sensation. For some odd reason, it did not concern him, even though he knew it should.
Merlin glanced out the window and was startled to see the sun almost halfway clearing the horizon. It had felt like mere minutes, but seemingly he had been stood there, in awe of his own hand, for quite some time. He tried to shake his head to clear it, but all it left him was feeling horribly dizzy and his head spinning. The discomfort cleared quickly, but he still felt uneasy on his feet for some time. He squeezed his eyes open and shut, tried to clear the fog, and moved to get dressed.