26The Masks that Most Suit Us by Emachinescat
A Merlin Fan-Fiction
Summary: After Uther's death and a mishap on the training field, Merlin chooses to suffer in silence in an effort to allow Arthur to grieve unburdened. But everyone has their breaking point – even the newly crowned king of Camelot. Written for Febuwhump on Tumblr. Day 13: hiding injury
A/N: This is probably the story that I am most excited about sharing so far! It takes place after Uther's death (though I don't specify whether he died the way he did in canon because that doesn't matter to the story). Honestly, this can be read as gen or Merthur, whatever you prefer. :) I hope you enjoy!
The Masks that Most Suit Us
Seems the mask that most suits me is anger,
For it covers a whole host of things:
Trepidation, disgust, insecurity,
And embarrassment with all its stings...
- From "Impenetrable" by Anna J. Arredondo
The king was dead, and Merlin had never felt so conflicted.
A part of him – an ugly part, he thought, one he tried to keep hidden, even from himself – rejoiced, not at the loss of life, but at the new possibilities for the future. The years Merlin had been in Camelot had been bathed in secrecy and terror, the prophecies of the Great Dragon a soothing balm that mostly kept the hopelessness at bay, and with each day that passed the same, Merlin found himself believing less and less in that grand destiny he supposedly shared with Arthur.
But now – now, things were changing, and quickly. Uther was dead, Arthur was king, and though Merlin was still not free, for the first time in a long time, hope now peeped its timid head out into the sun. Magic might still be illegal, but Merlin knew Arthur to be a better, fairer man than his father. Someday, maybe someday soon, the world would turn itself right side up for the first time, and he and Arthur could begin to build the kingdom that Merlin so longed for, the one he cherished even though it only existed in his dreams and the prophecies of strangers.
Indeed – a part of Merlin found a comfort and joy at the king's passing, and even though he knew that Uther had killed so many of his kind – and would have killed Merlin too, had he known – guilt stirred within him. Death was not something that should ever be celebrated; that was largely the reason he hated going on royal hunts.
On the other hand, it wasn't just King Uther, slaughterer of innocents and scourge on magic, who had died. He had also been Arthur's father, and the newly crowned king, stoic as he might pretend to be in court, was now experiencing the level of grief that only losing a parent could impart. Merlin had felt it, years ago; the pain of that particular loss had severed his soul in a way different than losing Will, or even Freya had. The death of a father broke in a way that could fully never be mended. Merlin had known his for a few days. Uther had been there for Arthur's entire life, and now, suddenly and unfairly, he had been ripped away.
For the first few hours after Uther's death, Merlin was at war with himself, hating himself for the feelings of relief that he could not entirely stave off. After seeing the pain in his friend's eyes, however, all thoughts of vindication or justice fled his mind as quickly as they had stolen in. Arthur was in his own personal hell, and it didn't matter anymore what Uther had done, only what he had been to his son, and so Merlin found himself grieving alongside the prince for a man he hated.
Four days had passed since Uther's death. Arthur had been sullen but grieved privately, if he grieved at all. To the people, he put up a strong front. To his friends and those closest to him, he put up an even stronger one. So far, Merlin had been uncharacteristically silent on the matter, not wanting to push Arthur too far too quickly. But he knew from his own experiences with loss that there had to be a breaking point. Arthur wasn't going to be able to stay strong forever, and the warlock worried about what would happen when the time for hiding behind the façade came to an end.
CLANG
Merlin flinched behind the shield as Arthur's sword pounded into it. His arms ached from the strain, a numbness creeping in about his wrists. They'd been at this for nearly an hour now, and Arthur showed no signs of tiring or stopping. First it had been dueling – "You have to be able to block a blow from a sword with a sword, Merlin; you won't always have a shield just lying about. Now stop complaining and assume the defensive position before I lob your head off!" Then, Arthur had moved on to flails, then Merlin had gotten a blessed break as Arthur threw daggers at a target (until Arthur insisted Merlin try as well and then yelled at him for having the weakest arms in the five kingdoms). The used weapons now lay discarded on the grass around them like the carnage of a small battle. Now, of course, Merlin was defending himself with a shield that Arthur was attacking like it had been the one who killed his father.
"Arthur," Merlin gasped. His chest burned with exertion and sweat poured down his face and darkened the neck of his shirt – he'd discarded the stifling neckerchief ages ago, it was far too hot. Small tremors ran down his forearms. He was certainly more fit than he'd been when he'd first come to Camelot, but the shield was still heavy and he didn't have the stamina – or emotional fuel – that Arthur did. He was tired, he hurt all over, and he felt much too hot. "Arthur, can we stop now?"
Arthur didn't respond. His eyes, though fixated on the shield, were far away, and a peculiar shine tinted them. The sweat pouring down his face could have just as easily been tears. He kept hitting the shield, and Merlin felt every blow wear him down a little more.
"Arthur, please, you need to stop–"
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
"Arthur–"
With an almighty clash, Arthur swung the sword like it was an axe and the shield a tree, and the force was so great – and Merlin's arms so tired – that the impact of the hit sent the shield crashing into Merlin's face and knocked him off balance. Pain exploded as the metal hit his face, and he found himself falling back, flailing. It would have made more sense to just let himself fall without making an attempt to catch himself – after all, it wasn't as if he were falling from a great height. But his instinct to catch himself took over. One hand landed on grass. The other had the distinct misfortune to find the flail left lying on the ground, off to the side of where they'd been training.
At first he didn't even feel anything, the edge was so sharp, and perhaps that was why Merlin was able to school his reaction into something more inconvenienced than injured. His servant's tumble seemed to break Arthur from his trance, and he threw the sword down, scowling.
"What the hell did you trip over this time?" he demanded, and Merlin realized that Arthur had been so caught up in, well, whatever that had been, that he'd not even realized that he was the reason for Merlin's fall.
At this point, the pain in Merlin's hand registered, slicing as deeply into his palm as the spike on the flail had, and he looked down to see blood already surging from the deep cut in his palm. Arthur threw down his sword, his eyes flashing in irritation, but Merlin was well-versed at seeing what lay beneath. Sucking in a deep breath against the anguish in his hand, Merlin quickly made to hide it from the new king. Arthur was suffering enough, and Merlin knew that the knowledge he'd accidentally hurt Merlin would only make things worse.
Arthur cast a quick glance around at the weapons strewn about the grass with derision. "Clean up this mess, Merlin," he ordered tersely. So caught up in his own misery, his normally keen eyes did not pick up on the tightness in Merlin's face, nor the way he awkwardly shielded his right hand behind his body. If he had been paying attention, he would have known something was wrong. But he wasn't – he couldn't, there was too much going on inside of his head – and so he stalked off the training field, leaving his bleeding servant to clean up the tremendous mess he'd made, one-handed.
An hour later, Merlin finally staggered into Gaius's chambers, his head and hand screaming for his attention. After Arthur had left, Merlin had hastily bound up his badly bleeding hand as best he could with his neckerchief. Thankfully the training grounds were vacant – everyone had been steering clear of spaces that contained both King Arthur and deadly weapons these days, if at all possible – so Merlin didn't have to explain his injury to anyone. He was especially glad that Gwaine was nowhere to be seen – without doubt, he would have bullied who had done it out of Merlin and then tried to start a fight with Arthur, dead father or not.
By the time Merlin had gathered up all of the weapons, his hand, fingers and all, hurt too much to move, and the makeshift bandage had already bled through, but Merlin kept working, tucking his hand into his jacket pocket in order to keep from getting blood everywhere. He had to take three trips to the armory since he only had the use of one hand, and then he had to make sure he cleaned the blood off of the flail's head on top of that. By the time he finally made it back to the physician's chambers, he was feeling woozy and blood had pooled in and soaked through the pocket.
Extracting his hand from the jacket was a nightmare in itself. The sensation of anything brushing against any part of the appendage sent bolts of agony up his arm. He'd curled his fist instinctively around the cut, and a shudder crawled unbidden down Merlin's spine at the pain. Some of the blood had dried, so peeling the soaked neckerchief from the wound pulled at the torn flesh. Merlin supposed it was lucky he'd decided to wear his red one; it wouldn't stain as noticeably. He might even be able to salvage the fabric.
After unwrapping the wound, Merlin worked quickly. Gaius was nowhere to be seen, but he could be back at any moment. For reasons Merlin didn't entirely know himself, he had no desire for Gaius to find out about what had happened – perhaps it was because Gaius would probably force him to take a foul potion, or maybe it was because he didn't want his guardian to worry. More likely, he realized as he carefully bathed his hand in a basin of clean, cold water, it was because he didn't want to talk about how it had happened. Gaius might let it slip to Arthur, and Merlin didn't want the newly crowned king to have to deal with anything else on top of his father's death. Gods knew that Arthur would blame himself, even if it was an accident, and more guilt was the opposite of what he needed.
By the time Merlin had washed the wound, the water in the basin was red. The bleeding had mostly stopped while his hand was submerged, but the moment he pulled it out, blood welled up immediately, the flow faster than Merlin liked to see. He did get a better look at the wound itself, which caused another bout of lightheadedness. The spike had cut cleanly, and no major tendons or nerves seemed to have been severed – thank the gods. Still, the two-inch gash went deep, and as Merlin examined it, gently and excruciatingly pulling apart the edges ever so slightly in search of any contaminants that could cause infection – he shed a few silent tears, here – he saw a small glint of white.
Distinctly ill, Merlin quickly slathered a generous amount of honey on the wound, hissing at the pain. The balm mixed unpleasantly with the blood but helped slow the flow until Merlin could bind his hand securely with bandages. He knew now that the wound was deep enough to need stitches, but he couldn't stitch one-handed and Gaius wasn't here, and anyway, Merlin really didn't want anyone to know. He'd keep an eye on it, and if the bleeding didn't let up enough, he'd go to Gaius when he came back. As it was, though, he'd bound his hand so tightly that his fingers were going numb, and that should be enough to stem the bleeding for now – he hoped.
Weak with exhaustion, Merlin knew his work wasn't over yet and made as quick work as possible of pouring out the bloody basin-water, scrubbing the bowl one-handed, and refilling it with fresh, clean water. Merlin then peeled off his jacket, the lower half of which was stained a dark red against the brown and which smelled of blood, and wearily climbed the three stairs to his room. He shoved the bloody jacket as well as the neckerchief into the very back of his wardrobe, intending to deal with them the next day.
And then he fairly collapsed on his bed, arms aching from the workout he'd received during training, hand throbbing in time with his heart, and head pounding in a discordant tattoo of pain. There was something he was forgetting, he knew it – most likely something important – but he was dizzy and sick, in pain and exhausted, and before he could force himself up and to his feet, he had fallen asleep.
Arthur stormed into Gaius's chambers, fury written on every line of his face. It had been four hours since Arthur had left the inept servant to clean up after training, and he'd expected Merlin back ages ago. He was exhausted from barely sleeping at night, aching from training, and despite the fact that he'd left his food nearly untouched the past few nights, indignant that his servant had swanned off and not brought him dinner. Quite honestly, the king was flabbergasted that Merlin had disappeared at all. It was bad enough that he was barely reliable when life was normal, but didn't he know what Arthur was going through? Couldn't he see that Arthur needed –
Arthur cut off his own thoughts, unable or unwilling to unpack whatever unwelcome thought was trying to take shape. He glanced around at the empty chambers and knew that Gaius had probably gone on his evening rounds. Merlin was nowhere to be seen, either. Probably in the tavern, the useless lug.
"Merlin!" Arthur called out, stomping for the stairs that led to his servant's bedroom. I swear to the gods, if you're sleeping…
The door opened before Arthur reached it. Merlin stood on the other side, wearing the clothes he'd trained in – though the jacket and neckerchief were gone. He looked tired and disoriented, and more concerningly, an ugly, swollen bruise had appeared in the middle of his forehead, extending its tendrils under his eyes. The bridge of his nose was red and puffy. Arthur's rage momentarily abated, or rather, redirected onto whoever had done that to his servant.
"Who hit you?" he demanded.
Merlin blinked blearily at his master, then muttered, "No one … A maid accidentally slammed a door in my face." Then he gasped. "What time is it? Oh gods, I wasn't supposed to fall asleep yet, was I?"
Knowing that Merlin's sorry state had been an accident and being reminded of the servant's ineptitude brought all of Arthur's irritation back in an instant. "Oh, no, Merlin," Arthur growled, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. "Now that I'm king, I've changed day to night and night to day, so you can sleep all you want in the middle of the afternoon."
"Can you do that, switch night and day?" Arthur genuinely couldn't tell if Merlin was trying to be funny or if he was really that stupid. Then he corrected himself – of course Merlin was that stupid. He didn't dignify the query with an answer. "I should have you in the stocks for this," he growled, and Merlin's eyes went wide. It had been a long time since Merlin had been thrown in the stocks, especially by Arthur himself. After all, with the strange friendship that had formed between them, while rife with insults, one-sided rough-housing, and well-aimed barbs at one another's character, this level of anger had become a rarity in recent days.
Arthur didn't really intend to lock Merlin up anywhere, but it felt obscenely good to threaten. It felt good to do anything but be still and exist in his own mind. "Unfortunately," he continued, "I am in need of your services, so I'll let you off the hook – this time." Merlin's relief was palpable, and Arthur felt the tiniest stab of guilt knowing that his servant had thought him serious.
He shoved it away, back into the recesses of his mind with everything else he didn't have time to dwell on. "Come on, make yourself useful – fetch my dinner. And prepare yourself for a late night – all of my ceremonial armor needs to be scrubbed, my boots cleaned, my room dusted, my…" He trailed off, noticing something quite odd – well, odder than usual – about his servant. Merlin, who had the audacity to yawn during Arthur's list of chores, instinctively raised his left hand to cover his mouth. Arthur did a double-take, glanced at Merlin's right hand, which hung limply by his side, and confirmed he wasn't crazy. "Merlin," Arthur interrupted himself. "Why the hell are you wearing gloves? It's the middle of summer!"
Merlin arranged his face into something Arthur could only call a pout. "My hands are cold. Isn't that usually why people wear gloves, Sire?"
"Again," Arthur insisted, "it's summer." But he didn't pursue it any further, because there was so much on his mind, and he really didn't have the capacity to deal with Merlin behaving even more strangely than usual. "Just… fetch my dinner, will you?" The preoccupied king turned on his heel and trudged from the room, barely aware of the niggling little voice in the back of his mind that told him something wasn't quite right with his servant.
As Merlin made his weary way to the kitchens, holding his injured hand protectively to his body, he kept his head down and hoped no one would see his face. He felt like an idiot – when he'd heard Arthur coming, he'd grabbed his only pair of winter gloves and pulled one painstakingly over his stiff, bandaged hand. Then he'd maneuvered the other one on, because even Arthur, oblivious as he was, would most likely be suspicious of his servant running around with a glove on one hand. But he hadn't even thought about his face – even though he'd not seen his reflection since the disastrous training, he should have known his face would look bad too – Arthur had knocked the shield into it with great force. Thankfully, Arthur had bought the lie he'd scrabbled for on the fly, but he knew if any of his other friends saw him, Gwen or Gwaine especially, they wouldn't be fooled as easily as the king who had too much on his mind to second-guess anything in the wake of his father's passing.
It was difficult and slow-going once Merlin had actually picked up the large tray of meats, cheeses, fruits, and a hearty stew. Merlin's right hand was completely useless, as even miniscule movements caused him great pain, and so he had to lift the tray in one hand and use his chest to balance it. Going up the stairs turned into a nightmare, and he only just avoided sending Arthur's dinner clanking and splashing down two flights. He instinctively grabbed for the tottering tray with his bad hand and nearly cried out at the agony that assaulted him. Thankfully, he made it the rest of the way to Arthur's chambers without any major incident and without running into anyone who might look closely enough to notice the bruises on his face.
He was confronted with his next problem when he arrived outside of Arthur's door and came to the frustrating realization that he couldn't open it. If he set the tray on the ground, he'd never be able to pick it up one-handed, either. So he did the only thing he could do – something he rarely ever did as far as Arthur was concerned – and knocked with his foot. "Dinner!" he called out in as cheery of a voice as he could muster.
"Just bring it in!" Arthur's voice called back, slightly muffled through the door.
Not willing to admit that he couldn't open the door himself, Merlin kicked out at it again, and after a short silence, Arthur's irritated footsteps could be heard approaching. When the king swung the door open, his eyes burned like embers.
"You've really reached a new level of uselessness today, haven't you, Merlin? By the gods, I've never seen someone so incompetent in my life. Put it on the table and get to work." He stomped back to his desk, where he appeared to be drafting a speech of some kind.
Despite himself, and despite understanding what the king was going through, Merlin found that Arthur's harsh words and harsher tone hurt. He quelled his automatic instinct to snap back at the royal, took a deep, calming breath, and all but tiptoed the rest of the way to the table. He fumbled in his attempt to set the tray down with only one hand – the bowl of stew tottered and then tipped. Merlin watched with horror as the thick, chunky mess oozed across the surface of the tray, flooding around and soaking into the fruit, bread, and cheese. Somehow, before Arthur even had the chance to react to the spill, Merlin knew what was coming. This was the moment the warlock had been anticipating, even dreading – the breaking point.
Arthur's mask cracked, the turmoil festering behind it exploding in a flash of uncontrollable, disproportionate rage.
"You idiot!" The normally teasing insult morphed into something vile; it was like Merlin was a disgusting creature Arthur had found stuck to the sole of his shoe. Arthur surged to his feet, advancing on his servant like he was about to attack, and despite himself, Merlin flinched back the tiniest bit. "Why do I trust you to do anything?" the king continued, and Merlin knew where the rage came from, that it wasn't rage at all, but bottled grief that he had no idea how to deal with. It didn't make his next word hurt any less though:
"Worthless."
Merlin took a step back, the venom in his master's voice taking him off guard.
"I don't know why I've put up with you for this long, I really don't!" The words were snarled, and the voice who said them didn't belong to Arthur. "My father is dead, Merlin, and you've done nothing but make life more difficult. You've been nothing but a burden."
Arthur's words stung worse than Merlin's sliced palm, and cut so much deeper. The burn of impending tears pressed against the back of his eyes, and he held them at bay by pure strength of will. He took two steps closer to the devastated king, the angry husk of a man he, in that moment, no longer knew. "I was giving you the space you needed. I'm sorry if you needed me to talk to you about it, or take your mind off of it."
"I just needed you to do your damn job!" Arthur all but howled, scooping up the nearest thing to him – a wine goblet. For a terrible moment, Merlin thought that Arthur had well and truly lost control of himself, that he was going to lob the vessel at Merlin's face from a few strides away. Instead, Arthur spun erratically and threw the goblet with every ounce of strength he possessed in the opposite direction. A shattering of glass as the cup burst through the window and plummeted to the ground below. Merlin didn't listen for it to land; he just hoped it hadn't hit anyone unlucky enough to pass underneath at just the wrong time.
Merlin could not spare any time worrying about the fate of the goblet or anyone who might have been in its path. Arthur still faced the window, neck bent, head hanging, shoulders heaving as his breaths escaped in frenzied, barely controlled bursts. Cautiously, Merlin stepped closer and reached out his good hand, still gloved, and touched the king's shoulder.
"I'm sorry."
Those two words acted as a catalyst; Merlin didn't know if it were the timing or the person who had said them, but it didn't matter, in the end. The ragged breaths turned to sobs, and Arthur's shoulders trembled with the force of them. And then, like a puppet master had cut his strings, Arthur collapsed, his knees hitting the ornate rug beneath him, and Merlin followed suit, comforting hand still resting, gentle, there if needed, on his king's shoulder.
"My father is dead," Arthur repeated, his voice as hollow as he must feel inside. He knelt on the floor and cried harder than Merlin had ever witnessed, mourned violently, smashed his fists against the carpeted stone. Merlin didn't speak, and knew that he was seeing something that he would never impart to another living soul. It was a private, terrible, beautiful moment, and by the time Arthur's breath began to even out, tears ran unhindered down Merlin's face as well. Though he did not – could not – mourn for Uther, he mourned for Arthur, and the father he'd lost.
Eventually, after what seemed like ages, when Merlin's knees had mostly gone numb, Arthur shifted and sat back, stretching his legs out before him. He moved like a man carrying a heavy weight as he scooted around to face his servant. Merlin saw that the king's face was tear streaked but dry, his eyes puffy and the whites spider-webbed with red. Merlin followed Arthur's lead, sitting back and stretching his own aching legs beside his king's.
Neither spoke for a long time. Merlin couldn't decide whether he should reach out and touch Arthur again, to continue to offer that little bit of comfort. In the end he didn't, leaving his hands carefully arranged in his lap, the injured one resting delicately on top, both still gloved and hot and sweaty underneath the fabric. He waited for Arthur to speak.
When the king finally did open his mouth, what came out was not what the servant expected. He'd thought Arthur would demand that Merlin keep his mouth shut and never reveal to anyone what he'd witnessed, or that he would admonish Merlin for something else or even try to regain a bit of normalcy by teasing him about something stupid. Instead, after a brief hesitation, his voice cracked with exhaustion, he ventured, "I'm sorry."
If Merlin had been standing, he would have stepped back in shock, maybe even fallen over. Arthur rarely apologized for anything, especially to Merlin. And when he did try to offer an apology, it was always shrouded in awkward phrasing and stupid insults and poorly veiled affection. He never just came out and said he was sorry. It just wasn't the kind of person Arthur was.
The shock must have shown on Merlin's face, because Arthur heaved a great sigh and looked down at his hands before continuing, "Don't get used to this kind of thing – you're nearly always in the wrong, after all. But…" He looked up, blue eyes meeting blue, and fumbled ahead, "You gave me space, and I needed that. And I can see I haven't been the, well, easiest to deal with these past few days."
"You're grieving," Merlin insisted.
"That doesn't give me the right to treat you like you are worthless," Arthur responded bluntly. "Yes, you are mostly useless as a servant, but you are not worthless. You... are a true friend, Merlin." Merlin's heart seemed to forget how to beat for a few moments at the admission – Merlin and Arthur were both very much aware that they were friends, as were the knights and nobles who could see it a mile away. But much like Arthur's apologies, this friendship was mutually unspoken. Normally, there existed no need to acknowledge it directly. Merlin hadn't realized just how much it would mean to him to hear Arthur admit it aloud.
"Oh, don't be such a petticoat," Arthur griped, no heat in his tone – he sounded more worn out than anything. "And if you ever tell anyone that I called you my, well, you know… I will actually throw you in the stocks. For a very long time. And I will personally bring a barrel of rotten produce to chuck at your idiotic face."
Merlin felt his face split into a grin despite the heavy weight of all that had happened between them. "Tell anyone what?" he asked innocently, and Arthur nodded his approval.
"Make sure you keep it that way." Pain still roiled in Arthur's eyes, and it had settled in in the lines around his eyes and in the shape of his mouth, but the mask was gone and he'd released some of what he had been so desperately holding in. He looked like he could use a long, hard nap and a good meal. Merlin could relate.
The king heaved himself to his feet, then leaned down to help Merlin up too In light of all that had just transpired, Merlin didn't immediately respond, and so Arthur impatiently grabbed his servant's hand to help him stand whether he was ready or not.
Unfortunately, he grabbed the right hand and pulled – hard.
An animal scream erupted from Merlin's lips, and he collapsed back onto the floor, gasping in lungfuls of air that just weren't enough, cradling his gloved right hand tightly against his chest, curling over it protectively. For a moment, Arthur stood frozen in shock – but then his mind caught back up and he realized something was very wrong with his servant.
For the second time, Arthur dropped to his knees, this time to kneel beside the hunched over Merlin, hands hovering over the curled form, unsure of where to or even if he should touch. "Merlin, what the hell is going on?" he demanded, a bit frantic.
"Nothing," Merlin rasped out, his voice garbled with pain. "Just… give me… a minute."
But now that the king's mind was clearer than it had been in days, it began putting together connections that he should have seen earlier – dammit! Grieving or not, it should have been obvious that there was something wrong with Merlin's hands – the gloves, the shady story about the door to the face, the way he'd been approaching every task awkwardly with his left hand. Now Arthur did reach out and gently grip Merlin's upper right arm. The servant shrank away on instinct.
"Merlin," Arthur said plainly, and he didn't have to elaborate. Carefully, shaking with pain, Merlin offered his master his right hand and hissed in agony as Arthur gently tugged the glove off. What he saw made his stomach twist.
Merlin's hand was stiff, the palm puffy, wrapped in bandages that had soaked through with blood. The moment the glove had been removed, the metallic scent had hit Arthur's nose and made his stomach curl.
"You didn't run into a door." It wasn't a question.
Amazingly – though Arthur wasn't surprised in the least – Merlin tried to hold his ground. "It had sharp edges."
Arthur raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "The door had sharp edges?"
Merlin sucked in a sharp breath of pain but didn't respond.
"Who did this to you?" Arthur asked, trying to keep his anger under control.
Merlin shook his head. "It was an accident."
"If it were an accident, you wouldn't have tried to hide it," Arthur argued.
"You've had enough to deal with. I didn't want you worrying about me."
"Funny, you've never been concerned about that before. And when have I ever given you reason to believe that I worry about you?" Even Arthur could tell that the jab sounded weak and half-hearted in light of the confession he'd just made.
"It's really no big deal, Arthur," Merlin insisted, tugging his hand out of the king's grip. "I should go back and let Gaius take a look at it since it's started bleeding again. He'll be furious."
Arthur's glare kept Merlin in place. "You didn't have Gaius look at it? Nor at your face? Why the hell would you hide something like this? Who are you afraid of?" Realization dawned. Merlin wasn't afraid of anyone. "Who are you protecting?" Merlin remained quiet, but the answer still slammed into Arthur like the bolt from a crossbow.
"Oh," he said lamely. "It was me, wasn't it?"
Merlin shook his head furiously. "It was an accident, this morning–"
"Oh gods," Arthur muttered, playing back the training that morning with a clearer head. "When you fell over–"
"It was an accident," Merlin repeated firmly. "My arms were growing tired and I let my guard down. I didn't hold the shield firm, and it hit my head. And then I really did fall. I caught myself, though."
"On something sharp, I'm guessing?" Though Arthur could hear the flatness in his own voice, guilt raged just beneath the surface. How could he have been so blind, so stupid? And then the way he'd treated the servant after the fact, when he'd been injured and in pain and struggling to do his job with one hand… Arthur's gut twisted uncomfortably.
"Merlin–" he started.
Impertinent as always, the servant cut him off. "Please don't apologize again, Arthur, especially for an accident. I don't think my heart can take the shock two apologies in one day."
The joke didn't take away the film of guilt that had developed over Arthur's heart, but it did make him smile, just a little. Even guilty and emotionally exhausted and mourning, he recognized the white flag for what it was. Merlin didn't blame him, and had only hidden the injury because he knew that Arthur would blame himself. Even when Arthur had been treating him so poorly, he had been doing all he could to look out for his master, his king … his friend. And that realization made Arthur warmer inside than he cared to admit.
And so he pushed through the guilt, rose to his feet once more and cautiously levered Merlin up beside him, being careful of his hand. "I'm walking you back to Gaius's," the king proclaimed.
Merlin shook his head. It was almost cute that he seemed to think he had a choice in the matter. "I can make it on my own," he said.
"I don't doubt that you can, only that you will. What were you thinking, Merlin, letting that wound go untreated? You cut your hand open with – what – a flail? How did you stitch it with your good hand?"
Merlin's silence was telling.
"Merlin! How in the five kingdoms are you supposed to be able to serve your king if you can't even take care of yourself? By the gods…"
And so he walked a sulky Merlin home after gently wrapping the reopened wound with the sleeve of his own tunic – "Don't worry, you get to mend it later, Merlin" – and though a heaviness still shrouded his heart, a mingling of pain and grief and guilt and fear for what the future might hold, King Arthur found himself more at peace walking at his servant's side – his friend's side – than he had in a while.
It was also quite cathartic to spend the trip lecturing his self-sacrificing idiot about the benefits of taking care of oneself. He stayed and observed Gaius as he clean and stitched the wound, and watched with joy as the the physician forced the horrible-smelling, muddy brown potion down Merlin's throat. Gaius picked up his own lecture seamlessly where Arthur left off, and the old man didn't stop until Merlin had passed out, weary and annoyed, on the patient's cot.
"Fool boy," Gaius grumbled affectionately as he began cleaning up his mess. Then he turned and looked at Arthur. "And how are you holding up, Sire?"
Arthur's first instinct was to brush off the question with his standard, "I'm fine." But then he glanced at his sleeping servant, bruised face finally relaxed and devoid of pain, hand swaddled in a veritable cocoon of bandages. He remembered the lecture he'd just directed at the other man, and realized that wounds of any kind were dangerous left unchecked.
"Not great," he admitted at last, noting the raised eyebrows at his truthful response with a tiny hint of pride. Gaze still on his servant, the king swiped the back of his hand across his cheek and added, "But I will be."
Arthur wandered leisurely back to his chamber, ate most of his dinner, and slept soundly. It was the first time he had been able to do so since his father's death.
A/N: Side note - After I read my husband this story, it is now his personal headcanon that the goblet Arthur threw out of the window hit poor Leon on the head as he was passing by down below.
I hope that you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it! More Merlin stories coming soon! I'd love to know what you thought!
~Emachinescat ^..^