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Chapter Text

Merlin hummed quietly to himself, shrugging his shoulders every so often to readjust the wood stacked precariously in his arms. His eyes flashed gold, and another piece zoomed up from the forest floor to add itself to the pile. Then he frowned, eyes narrowing in frustration.

“Oh, no, you can’t come with us, Merlin,” he huffed under his breath in what he liked to think was a prattish tone, and another stray branch zipped through the air towards him, executing a neat loop-the-loop as it did so. “It’s much too dangerous for defenceless manservants.

“You just stay here – in the woods – by yourself – while the big strong knights go handle the magical, mythical creature with three heads. That’s much safer.

“And, of course, we’ll expect our dinner to be waiting when we get back from our knightly duties.”

The next piece of wood sprouted new, green leaves before landing in his arms. Merlin buckled slightly at the extra weight, staring at the thick chunk contemplatively for a few moments. Then he smiled as the leaves plucked themselves off one by one, swirling and dancing in impossibly complex patterns in the air above his head, before he remembered that he was supposed to be mad.

“And then – and then – when you sneak after us, like you always do, and defeat said magical, mythical, three-headed beastie for us, like you always do, we’ll clap each other on the back like we were the ones that killed it, not that incredibly lucky rock fall. Great, glowing blue boulders? What glowing blue boulders? Couldn’t see them in all the dust. Good thing Merlin wasn’t here, or he probably would have tripped over and bashed his clumsy head in in surprise.”

Merlin paused for a moment, trying to come up with a suitable insult for the king and his men. He gave up after a few moments, settling grudgingly for his age-old standby.

“Prat.”

He wandered randomly for a short while, until the growing weight of the wood in his arms threatened to tip him over backwards. Then he turned back in what he assumed was vaguely the way he had come, absently wondering if the knights were still ogling the corpse of the creature, as they had been last he’d seen them.

Merlin hesitated, coming out of his thoughts for a moment to actually pay attention to his surroundings. He’d wandered further from the camp than he’d thought, he realised uneasily. His eyes flashed, showing him the way, and Merlin adjusted his course accordingly, tripping unhurriedly off in the correct direction. He started humming absently again, not entirely sure what the tune was. He thought that it might have been one of Gwaine’s drinking songs.

A sudden laugh brought him up short, and Merlin took the time to grimace as one or two smaller sticks clattered from his load and onto the forest carpet before scanning the surrounding woods warily. Of course the knights would be back already, he thought sourly. Couldn’t even give him a chance to start a fire. Now he’d have to put up with them demanding to know what he’d been doing the whole time.

Although… that hadn’t really sounded like any of the knights, Merlin realised uneasily, catching a glimpse of movement out of the corner of one of his eyes. His eyes flicked in that general direction, and after his initial heart attack when he realised that it wasn’t Arthur and the knights strolling casually between the trees in front of him, he found himself relaxing. They were just kids, Merlin chastised himself. Youths, he corrected, skulking back into the shade of the creaking boughs anyway as they whooped and chattered boisterously amongst themselves. If there was one thing that Merlin had learnt, it was to be wary to the point of paranoia of passing bunny-rabbits, let alone half a dozen young men and women with – he noticed – a smattering of weaponry hanging from belts and sheaths and shoulders. He’d just let them pass on by…

One of the youths, a young woman with bright eyes and dirty blonde hair in a fine tunic and breeches, happened to glance his way, her eyes meeting his in surprise. Merlin found that he didn’t like the broad smile that spread across her face.

“Ethin,” she called, and Merlin cursed inwardly as one of her companions, a well-built lad of about Merlin’s age with passingly handsome features – if a rather large nose – glanced back at her questioningly. The servant pasted a friendly smile on his face as the boy – Ethin – followed his companion’s gesturing hand with his eyes, his gaze coming to rest curiously on Merlin’s own.

Merlin forced himself to nod in acknowledgment, before easing a few steps to the left and making to dart off casually between the trees, losing a few more sticks as he did so. He pulled to a halt, however, when he found the woman with the wide smile and one of her friends suddenly blocking his path, their eyes dancing merrily.

“Excuse me,” Merlin muttered uncomfortably, not liking the way that the other four were drifting up on his left, even with the pseudo-friendly smiles. Neither of the two in front of him moved.

“Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?” the girl asked, sounding hurt. Something about her tone didn’t ring true, though, and Merlin had to stop himself from backing up. Not everyone he ran into in the forest could be a bandit, he scolded himself. They were just kids, after all, the lot of them in their early twenties with bright, mischievous eyes and the clean, well-made clothing of merchant’s sons and daughters – of a far better quality than his own. Not exactly the worst threat he had ever faced.

“I’m Merlin,” he said eventually, going for confidently pleasant and not entirely sure whether he achieved it or not. “And I really need to be going.” He gestured with the wood piled up in his arms.

He thought he heard a quiet snigger behind him, but he could have just been hearing things.

“Is someone waiting for you?” a second girl asked – the gleam in her eye at odds with the disinterest in her tone.

“Yes,” Merlin said firmly. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to them.”

“I didn’t see a camp anywhere around here,” someone else observed, and Merlin found himself regretting the glamour he had layered over their horses and packs, to prevent someone from robbing them while he was gone. “Didn’t see anyone else, either. Are you lost?”

“Why would you lie to us about that?” the wide-mouthed girl probed, her tone mock-hurt.

“He looks nervous,” one of the boys commented, kicking out at a leaves piled around them. “Almost a little bit… scared.”

“Why would you be scared of us, friend?” Ethin questioned, leering in a manner that was undoubtedly meant to be intimidating. Merlin mind flashed back to the three-headed beastie lying smoking in a clearing not fifteen minutes north – and then to Morgana and Morgause, dragons and Doroccha, bounty-hunters and witch-finders; hell, even Arthur on a bad day – and then he looked back at the soft-skinned lad who apparently should have been frightening, and he couldn’t help himself. He snorted a laugh, his unruly lips quirking upwards.

It was a mistake. Six pairs of brows lowered over six pairs of eyes, six mouths twisted, and the hovering mood darkened from teasing to threatening at the perceived slight. “Something funny?” Ethin demanded, looking for all the world like what he really was – a spoilt, petulant bully with an inflated ego, surrounded by his spoilt, petulant friends. Merlin didn’t answer, trying to contain his sudden mirth. He’d used to be afraid of youths like this. Now it seemed faintly ridiculous.

“I asked if something was funny,” Ethin repeated darkly. “You’d think you’d hear me, with ears like that.”

If Merlin’s hands had been free, he would have let them flutter to his heart. “You’d think you could smell my fear, with a nose like that,” his mouth quipped before his brain really thought it through. “Now, if you don’t mind, I really do need to be going.”

Just like that, the six of them had moved to surround him like a pack of jackals, and Merlin realised his mistake with a rather belated flash of intuition. He could, without a doubt, blast the lot of them to kingdom come with barely a thought. He had faced Serkets and Questing Beasts and things that these children’s parents had told them about to frighten them out of going into the woods. He was Emrys. He was one of the things parents scared their children with. But they didn’t know that.

All they could see was some lanky, mouthy peasant lad in ill-fitting clothes with low level self-preservation instincts – the face that, in the past, had served him so well. And, he thought with chagrin, unless he actually wanted to blast them to pieces for being a bit pushy, there wasn’t a whole lot that he could do without resulting in multiple mouths screaming sorcerer to anyone who would listen.

Plus, the knights would be back any minute. And Merlin wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not, because six armed strangers in trees might be a bit hard to explain, even for him.

Ah, damn. This was why Gaius was always telling him to think before he acted.

The six of them must have seen his sudden unease, because by now they were smirking again. “That is funny,” Ethin ground out, turning to the wide-mouthed girl. “Don’t you think it’s funny, Sara?”

“Very,” she said, dead-pan. “I think he just asked to be taught some manners, Ethin.”

“So do I. That’s a nice sword you’ve got there, friend. Do you know how to use it?”

Merlin glanced down in surprise, past his firewood to the blade hanging at his waist. He’d forgotten it was there – in fact, he wasn’t actually even sure why he’d bothered belting it on in the first place. Merlin supposed that it was a nice sword – it belonged in the armoury in Camelot, after all. His conversation with Arthur rose back up in his mind.

“Are you afraid of being left alone in the dark, Merlin?” the king had asked mockingly when he protested – again – at being left behind.

“Afraid that the lot of you won’t come back if I’m not there to look after you, more like,” Merlin retorted, dead serious even though he knew that the chances of the knights taking it as anything but him being smart were approximately zero. “What do you want me to do if someone tries to steal all of your stuff?”

“Scream and call for help, of course,” Arthur informed him with a triumphant smile that said the king thought that he had won their verbal exchange. “Just try not to trip over when you run away.”

“You know that I’m just going to follow you,” Merlin called after them as they went to move off in the supposed direction of the beast, and Arthur groaned, but Gwaine turned back with a grin.

“There’s one of my spare swords on my saddle, mate,” the knight yelled back with a wink. “Maybe run some of the thieves through before you run away, okay? Just so the princess knows that you can.”

“He probably stole it,” Nameless Bully No. 3 said from somewhere behind him. “It’s not like he could afford something like that.”

“My father is the head of the Merchant’s Guilt in Camelot, you know,” Ethin informed him. “I could have you arrested for theft sooner than you could think.”

“Yeah, well,” the prophesized Emrys said casually, thoroughly unimpressed by the name-dropping, and wondering why ¬ just why – it was so difficult not to continue digging his own shallow grave with his tongue, “I’m the King’s servant, so I guess we’re even.” People just kept painting targets all over themselves, he guessed regretfully.

Sara and Ethin exchanged glances. “You should probably have realised by now that we don’t find you funny,” Sara informed him, irritated.

“Likewise.”

“You know,” Ethin said, obviously struggling with his temper, “we might have just let you walk away. But you’ve made me angry, and I do like that sword, so I think I’d like to take it from your dead body.”

Merlin froze, not entirely sure that he’d heard right. It sounded like the other lad had just said…

Ethin’s own blade was suddenly in his hands, and the pile of firewood dropped from Merlin’s arms with a crash. “Hey, wait a moment,” Merlin said uncertainly, putting his hands up placatingly, and this time he was certain that someone sniggered.

Well. That escalated quickly.

“Ethin’s one of the best swordsmen in Camelot outside of the knights themselves,” Sara boasted, and the ring of youths closed in around him.

“That’s great,” Merlin replied, watching Ethin’s sword warily and wondering why no-one else was seeing the irony of the fact that the person now threatening him with a sword had just been threatening him with the law. “You dad must be so proud. But I’m fairly certain it still doesn’t mean you can just go around killing people in the woods.”

“But living up in the capital is so boring,” one of the men behind him heaved with a put-upon sigh. “And our parents cut our allowances.”

“So now we need some other way of supporting ourselves, so to speak.”

“It’s not like we can just get jobs,” someone else added in distaste. “And that sword must be worth a nice piece.”

Merlin’s heart was hammering by this point. They were actually serious about this. Forget what he’d said earlier. Maybe not everyone he met in the forest was a bandit, but apparently they were all freaking lunatics. “And you just thought you’d start mugging people for kicks,” he surmised quietly, two parts disgusted at the sheer arrogance, one part desperately wondering where the hell the knights had gotten to.

“In a way,” Ethin admitted. “But we’re not just common criminals like you, friend. We have honour. Draw your sword, and we’ll see if I can’t take it from you.”

“You’re insane,” Merlin informed the bully, not bothering by this point about whether he was making his situation worse – and seriously debating whether he actually cared if Arthur did show up and see him hurling people into trees. “No, thanks. I think I’d like to walk away, now.”

The circle closed in tighter, and Merlin suddenly realised that the rest of the little pack had hands on their own weapons, too. “Too late,” someone told him cheerfully, and then Ethin was lunging towards him with excitement dancing manically behind his eyes.

Merlin wasn’t entirely sure how he managed to get Gwaine’s sword out of its sheath and between himself and his assailant in time to prevent serious injury – in fact, he was fairly certain that the both of them actually paused for a moment to stare in surprise when Ethin’s blade reverberated off of his own. Someone – it sounded like Sara – groaned in disappointment.

“Huh,” Ethin said, scratching his head and taking a step back. “That was unexpected.”

Merlin gestured modestly. The bully shrugged. Then someone’s foot lashed out from the side and hooked around his ankle, and Merlin suddenly found himself face-to-face with the dirt with something sharp and metallic blurring towards his head.

The warlock rolled desperately, fumbling to keep his own weapon away from his body as the silver metal buried itself in the space previously occupied by his neck. He flinched backwards, heard someone laugh, and scrambled to his feet, fairly certain that his eyes were wide and staring with shock. Ethin didn’t even hesitate – he jabbed once, twice, little, testing prods with the tip of his sword that Merlin eased to the side with the flat of his own blade and ducked around; making sure to keep away from the walls of the circle, half a dozen feet in either direction, as he did so. The other man was trying to get his measure, Merlin realised. Good luck with that. Merlin wasn’t exactly classically trained – he’d just picked up bits and bobs from the knights, all of whom, he knew without a doubt, were far superior in their swordsmanship to anyone currently present. And while that rather unorthodox education may have resulted in a limited skill level, it would also make him rather unpredictable.

Channelling some of that unpredictability, Merlin twisted his sword to the left instead of the right, concentrating fiercely and trying to remember how Leon had shown him. He slid, ducked, slashed… and grinned despite himself when he felt the blade bite flesh.

The catcalling around them went silent, and Merlin looked up to see Ethin staring down uncomprehendingly at the red staining the front of his jerkin, a thin, dripping line of it running the full length of his chest. Merlin’s smugness faded somewhat, though, when the youth looked back up, fury burning in his eyes at being made a fool of in front of his friends. And when he realised that the cut probably wouldn’t actually slow his opponent down all that much.

Ethin snarled and swung, and Merlin parried, feeling the jar run up his arm. He let some of his magic seep into the muscles, and found himself relaxing slightly. This kid was no Arthur. If he could just keep him busy for a little longer…

Which was, of course, when it all went to hell.

Someone shoved him from behind, muttering angrily – and these kids really needed to be taught the meaning of the word honour – and Merlin stumbled forwards, losing track of Ethin for a few vital seconds. He hurled himself sideways on instinct, and the sword skated across his ribs instead of impaling him, which he supposed counted as a win. Merlin gasped in surprise, one hand fluttering to his bleeding side, but he spun around nimbly – or as nimbly as his gangly limbs could manage – just in time to deflect the other man’s follow-through so that it ran across his forearm, rather than through his heart.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that killing people is rude?” Merlin huffed, parrying, ducking, snarling when another inconveniently placed foot from amongst the undulating wall of bullies, and a small, ice cold blade that sliced across his other side from behind, sent him tripping forwards again, face-first into Ethin’s fist.

Merlin saw stars. When they stopped dancing around the inside of his head, Ethin was staring down at him with a cheerful, vindictive smile, one hob-nailed boot raised a foot above Merlin’s left arm.

“No, no don’t..!”

Merlin howled, curling in over the boot resting on top of his shattered upper-arm as the bully pressed down and twisted. When the foot retracted, and he was vaguely aware of Ethin and the rest of the circle withdrawing slightly – though not before the other boy kicked him maliciously in the head, sending him reeling backwards, fighting for breath and warring with his body’s reflex tears. Merlin forced his eyes open through the fuzziness that descended upon him like a cloud, staring at his arm in shock. He could feel the blood, even if he couldn’t see it through the material of his jacket. But he could see the odd angle that it was splayed at against the ground, each of his fingers twitching with tiny tremors and refusing to obey his commands.

Merlin looked over, wide-eyed, at where Ethin stood watching him. The bandit – because this, this was the work of a common thug – shrugged, and beckoned mockingly with one hand.

The warlock gritted his teeth, clamping them down against the wail rising in his chest. The hell with this. The hell with them. He forced himself up into his knees jerkily, Gwaine’s sword still clutched tightly in his good hand. Merlin glanced down at that sword. The knights were coming. And when they got there…

Merlin smiled.

He stood up, damaged limb hanging limply, and spat blood, twirling his sword in the expert manner that he had picked up from Arthur. It was about the only thing that Arthur had taught him to do with a sword, but still. It looked impressive.

“Getting tired, boy?” the bandit sneered, kicking Merlin’s already scattered pile of fire-wood out of the way as his cronies laughed. “Do you really think that you can beat me? How much longer do you think you can keep this up for, with that arm?”

“I don’t have to beat you,” Merlin said with a savage grin, sinking into a crouch. “I just have to keep you here… until Arthur gets back.”

It might have just been him – or the fireworks going off in front of his vision – but he liked to think that Ethin and his friends suddenly looked nervous.

Almost a little bit… scared.
 

Chapter Text

“I’m telling you, if Percy hadn’t pulled me out the way, that rock would have squashed me flat,” Gwaine insisted for the fourth time, throwing his arms out dramatically to illustrate his point, and Arthur rolled his eyes.

“At least then we wouldn’t have had to put up with your whining,” Elyan said drily, and the knight glanced over at him in mock hurt.

“If Merlin was here, he would show the proper amount of care and concern a true friend should hold,” Gwaine sniffed, slinging his sword casually over one shoulder and pretending not to notice when Elyan scurried out of the way of the sharp edge with a small yelp.

“If Merlin was here, he would managed to get knocked out by a rock, gored by the creature, he’d have fallen off a non-existent ledge and nearly drowned in a puddle, attracted every bandit in the forest while he was at it, and then he’d still have been sitting there moaning about how we never let him do anything,” Arthur corrected, trying – and failing – to keep the fondness out of his tone.

“Yes. And then he’d have asked how my head was.”

Percival sniggered quietly in the background. “I do hope he’s alright,” Leon said, sounding genuinely worried. “He does have a habit of getting into trouble whenever he’s by himself.”

“How much trouble can he… forget I said anything,” Gwaine sighed. “I’m still feeling twitchy that he didn’t actually follow us. It’s unnatural.”

“Unless he did and we just didn’t notice?”

They all stopped walking, glancing around the forest uncertainly as if trying to catch a glimpse of red, blue and brown through the trees.

“Nah,” Gwaine said after a while. “He’d have tripped over something by now. Right?”

“Right,” Leon agreed. But he didn’t sound very sure.

“How much further is it?” Percival asked softly, and Arthur looked up at the sinking sun, then back at the forest.

“A couple more minutes. I hope Merlin’s got something cooking. I’m starving.”

“I just hope he remembered to bring the ale. And the apples.”

“Did you hear that?”

The other knights glanced over at Elyan curiously, and he gestured vaguely. “Over that way. I thought I heard…”

A wail, long, drawn out and filled with agony, cut through the stillness of the forest around them, riding over whatever else they might have heard. The five of them pulled to a startled halt as it tapered off sharply, and Arthur found his gaze dragging itself over to Gwaine’s; his own immediate, icy dread mirrored in the other man’s eyes. He’d never heard that voice make that sound before – but somehow, in his gut, Arthur knew.

“That sounded like-”

“Merlin,” his knight agreed grimly, suddenly taut as a bowstring – all signs of joking vanished and replaced by dangerous intensity. By some unspoken agreement, Arthur was suddenly running, ignoring the protests that followed him until the knights, exchanging glances, simply hitched up their swords and sprinted after Gwaine and their king.

Arthur bolted through the undergrowth, straining his ears to make out any sounds that might guide them in the right direction. It was faint, but he heard laughter, high, mocking and cruel. His gut turned to acid as he honed in on the noise, refusing to acknowledge the thousand scenarios suddenly running through his mind like a runaway stallion at the thought of what could have caused Merlin to scream like that – what if someone really had tried to rob the camp, what if bandits had found his servant, what if there was another creature, what if it was Morgana, oh, gods, what if Merlin was dead? What if, by making him stay behind, alone – what if Arthur had killed the idiot?

What if Merlin didn’t think they were coming?

The king vaulted an old, fallen log, running as fast as he dared over the uneven forest floor and veering steadily further to the left to follow the quiet murmur of voices. He strained to make out the words, and his heart hammered harder when he recognised Merlin’s tones among them – raised in anger and very much alive – then nearly stopped altogether when he heard his own name.

“Who the hell is Arthur?” someone demanded, and then the king was bursting through the trees, Gwaine right beside him.

Merlin was facing away from them, and the half-dozen people surrounding him were too intent upon their victim to notice anything else as the king came to a faltering halt and stared, unable to fully process the scene. Gwaine snarled viciously beside him, and the king found himself heartily in agreement with the sentiment, a cold, unfamiliar rage pooling in his chest. Merlin was meant to be happy and cheerful and stupid and safe. That was the unspoken rule on which their brotherhood was based. They should have come back to find him pottering around a blazing fire, making dumb comments about how long they had taken; and nobody – nobody – had the right to change that. Merlin wasn’t meant to be standing there, alone, fenced in and preyed upon, and about two seconds away from being run through – for the second time, by the look of him. There was blood seeping out of the back of his servant’s jacket, and Arthur couldn’t even bring himself to look at the frankly disturbing way that Merlin’s left arm flapped limply against his side, awkward and wrong.

He didn’t remember drawing his hunting knife, but suddenly it was sailing through the air, sending the man threatening his friend falling to the floor with a scream and the dagger buried up to its hilt in his shoulder. Gwaine must have taken it as permission, because he darted forwards like a hunting hound before the bandits had even realised that their friend was down – and then the rest of the knights were flooding forwards around him, forming an angry wall between Merlin and his persecutor’s and washing them away. The servant glanced back over his shoulder in confusion at the ruckus, his mouth dropping into a small, relieved ‘o’ when he caught sight of Arthur; just as his legs buckled out unceremoniously from beneath him.

Arthur was by Merlin’s side in an instant, slinging an arm under his shoulders – careful of the damaged left one – and supporting him as the servant sank slowly to the floor, grinning like an idiot the whole way. His jacket was torn in two places and blood was soaking through, Arthur catalogued immediately, taking in the split lip and rapidly swelling eye, and the weeping slash cleaving across his good arm. “You idiot,” Arthur muttered. He was vaguely aware of the thugs belatedly drawing weapons with shouted exclamations and trying to defend themselves as his knights descended vengefully upon them, but he was too concerned by the vague, faraway look in Merlin’s eyes to pay too much attention. “You absolute bloody cabbage-head. Focus, Merlin, I’m trying to insult you. Focus, dammit! Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“Knew you’d get here,” Merlin slurred contentedly, ignoring the question. “Knew you’d come.”

“Idiot,” Arthur re-iterated shakily, his heart hammering in his ears. “I’ll always come.”

Gwaine slid down beside them, discarding his sword onto the forest floor. The knight took one look at his friend and growled out loud. “He needs Gaius,” he demanded, his tone brooking no argument, and the king found himself inclined to agree.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

Arthur froze at the unfamiliar voice, finally bothering to look back up at the strangers – the strangers who had, moments previously, been surrounding Merlin. Toying with him. Three of them were unconscious, he saw indifferently. Two others were being held at sword point, both looking frightened out of their minds, and if one of them appeared to have a broken left arm, Arthur didn’t feel the need to take particular note. The sixth, the one he had stabbed, was staring up at them from where he lay sprawled on the carpet of leaf litter, bewilderment and anger twisting his features along with the pain.

“I could ask you the same question.”

“I’m Ethin Lowell, the eldest son of the gods-damned Head of the Merchant’s Guild, you thug!”

Arthur paused, shocked. What the hell were a rich merchant’s son and his friend’s doing out in the woods terrorising travellers? And how had Merlin managed to cross them so badly? “And I’m Arthur,” he said eventually.

“Told you he’d come,” Merlin piped up, head lolling on his shoulders, and Arthur shushed him as the bully hauled himself painfully up onto his feet, one hand doing a poor job of stemming the blood flowing down his shoulder.

“What are you, the fourth son of an Earl?” the youth demanded belligerently. “What, did your father name you after the king so someone would take notice of you? You’ll be reported for this! I demand medical attention for myself and my companions, by the Knight’s Code of honour-”

Suddenly, Arthur was on his feet too, entrusting Merlin’s precarious grasp on balance to Gwaine, who immediately wrapped his arms protectively around their friend and began muttering soothingly – something about putting his sword to good use, the king thought. “You dare speak of honour?” Arthur cut the smaller man off dangerously. “You, who did this?”

“You attacked me,” Ethin spat. “Without provocation, I might add.”

“And stopping you from tormenting a citizen of Camelot wasn’t… provocation enough?” Elyan asked, his sword levelled at the chest of a blonde-haired, wide mouthed girl who seemed to terrified to speak. Good.

“Him?” the youth said dismissively, as though Merlin wasn’t even worth mentioning, and his tone stoked Arthur’s anger even higher. How dare he? How dare this boy think himself so far above Merlin – Merlin, who had never done anything to deserve such treatment in his life? “I assure you, Sir Knight, that it was entirely justified, provoked, even-”

“Pick up your sword.”

The boy stopped talking. “What?” he said after a few moments.

“I said,” Arthur repeated slowly, briefly wondering if this was against the law and then realising that he didn’t particularly care, “pick up your sword.”

The boy took a slow step backwards, then stopped when Leon appeared at his shoulder, blocking his way; the knight’s usually calm eyes somehow seemed four shades darker with the promise of violence. “I’m injured,” the bully pointed out, and Arthur smiled.

“Yes. Yes, you are.”

“But-”

“Percival,” Arthur called, not taking his eyes off of the youth. “If you would be so kind.”

There were two muted thuds, and when Arthur glanced over the two previously conscious thugs had joined their friends in slumberland. “Thank you, Percival,” the king said graciously, turning back. “I seem to recall that Merlin was injured, too. And that you thought six to one were honourable odds.” The knights, perhaps sensing his intent, moved as one, surrounding them – all save Gwaine, who Arthur doubted would have left Merlin’s side if another beast had come bursting into the clearing. Elyan actually cracked his knuckles. “Well, that’s four on one, and you’re in better shape than Merlin,” Arthur continued conversationally, noticing the streak of blood across the man’s chest for the first time. Pride that welled up inside him. “So I guess that this is fair.”

“You can’t seriously expect me to-”

“Pick. Up. Your. Sword.”

He did, his hand shaking slightly as he wiped it off on the expensive material of his trousers, arrogance and condescension gone. Arthur waited until the blade had cleared the ground before lunging, his eyes deadly.

The boy parried his first stroke through sheer luck – and Arthur may not have known it, but the irony was not lost on Ethin – but the second sent him stumbling to the side, the third whipped across his cheek hard enough to cleave flesh, and the fourth sent his sword flying from his grip so fast that Arthur wondered if he hadn’t dropped it on purpose, perhaps realising just how outmatched he was. Arthur watched contemptuously as the other man staggered backwards, hands upwards in supplication and fluttering towards his damaged face, eyes wide in shock at the swiftness of Arthur’s demolition.

“Please,” Ethin gasped, all of his bravado disintegrating. “I don’t know what you want, but just stop. He’s just some peasant, we were just having some fun.  My father has friends...”

“I don’t care who your father’s friends are,” Arthur said coldly, and, whatever was in his face, it made the boy cut off with an undignified squeak. “I’ll have them arrested, too. I’m King Arthur of Camelot, you little bastard, and that man is my friend.”

It was with great satisfaction that Arthur stepped forward and punched said little bastard square in his over-sized nose, leaving him to fold over like a sack of potatoes onto the forest floor with a small, confused, “oh”.

Arthur heard someone grunt in approval as he shook out his knuckles, turning his back on the unconscious form. “Get the horses,” he called back to his men, trusting them to follow his order as he knelt down by Merlin’s side.

“Merlin?” Arthur said gently, and he felt a thrill of fear run through him when the servant didn’t respond. “Merlin?”

“Shuddup, prat, m’tryin’ t’sleep.”

“Thought you were supposed to be a physician, mate,” Gwaine pointed out. “What is it you keep telling me every time I got clocked over the head?”

“Don’ go to sleep. Sleep bad,” Merlin allowed grudgingly. “Why are there three of you?”

“He’s got a concussion,” Arthur surmised, and Gwaine sent him a no, really, look.

“Well he did kick me in the head,” Merlin pointed out helpfully, his eyes rolling around slightly in their sockets as he tried to focus on Arthur’s face. “His boots are really heavy.”

Arthur exchanged a glance with Gwaine, and the knight’s arms tightened briefly around their friend, who twitched away when the knight jostled his oddly angled arm. “Merlin,” Arthur said in his best thou-shalt-obey-me tone, his eyes drawing themselves over to the injury in morbid fascination, “I need you to tell me where you’re hurt.”

Merlin squirmed uncomfortably. “Umm… m’fine.”

“Merlin.”

“I don’t think you’re going to be getting much more out of him, Arthur,” Gwaine said worriedly, and, true enough, Merlin’s lids were fluttering closed again, his face gradually relaxing.

“No– dammit, Merlin, stay awake!”

It was no good – Merlin was out cold. If he’d been standing up, Arthur would have kicked something. As it was, his hand tightened over the hilt of his sword until the bones stood out rigidly against his skin, and he ran his free fingers through his hair in agitation.

“How the hell did this happen, Gwaine?” the king demanded distractedly, watching the rise and fall of his servant’s chest like a hawk. “He should have been safe so close to Camelot. We were only gone for half an hour. That’s why we left him here – so that he would be safe.”

“I don’t know, Arthur,” Gwaine said grimly, “but it’s a bloody good thing that it did happen so close to the castle.”

Arthur’s query died in his throat when the knight lifted one hand away from his friend’s side, and he saw the red dripping from off of it and onto the forest floor. The king wrenched Merlin’s jacket away from his side, and stared in horror when he saw the long, ragged cut twisting across his servant’s upper abdomen and up across his ribs, its severity previously hidden by the material. Then he was turning and roaring for the horses, demanding that someone bring bandages and trying – and failing – to keep Merlin’s blood inside of his friend’s still body with his bare hands.

Merlin mumbled incoherently once or twice, twitching sporadically – in pain or confusion or both – and by the time Percival and Leon arrived, pulling the horses behind them, Arthur was close to a full-blown panic. When the cut was bandaged as best they could manage, Arthur let Percival take charge of his servant just long enough for the knight to lift the smaller man onto one of the mares before the king was swinging himself up and fastening Merlin firmly in place with his arms, shouting back orders for the knights to take care of the unconscious bandits and to make sure that they didn’t die – and then he was charging back in the direction of Camelot, Gwaine hot on his trail and Merlin ominously pale and still in his arms.

Chapter Text

Arthur paced, intent on the pattern of his footsteps clacking against the polished stone floor. Four steps in either direction were all that he could manage in the small hallway outside of Gaius’ chambers, so four steps were what he made do with. Four steps up, avoiding Elyan’s leg on the third… four steps back. Repeat.

Don’t let your mind wander.

Four steps up… four steps back.

Don’t think about why your arms, legs, shoulders, why your gods-damned hair is sticky and flaking and stiff.

“Would you cut that out!” Gwaine snapped eventually, running out of patience. “It’s driving me insane!”

“What?” Arthur demanded, not appreciating being dragged out of his thoughts – not when it wasn’t Merlin doing the dragging.

“That thrice-blasted pacing, that’s what.”

“Oh, I’m sorry Sir Gwaine, perhaps you’d prefer it if I went and got myself drunk instead?”

The other man lowered his wine-skin guiltily, stopping the neck and throwing it to the side. “Pardon if I don’t really want to face this sober. My best friend’s in there, half bled to death. I don’t know how you lot are doing it.”

Arthur glared at him, suddenly fed up with the man’s attitude and studiously ignoring the exhausted, exasperated looks passing between the other knights. “You don’t think we’re just as worried? Because last time I checked, you weren’t the only one in this castle who cares about Merlin.”

“At least I’ll admit I care about him to his face,” Gwaine muttered. “At least I wasn’t the one who left him behind, alone in the forest.”

“Gwaine!” Leon snapped, but the damage was done. Arthur, already high strung and half out of his mind with worry, marched up to the knight furiously, refusing to acknowledge that the other man might be right – that, deep down, he might have been more angry at himself that at Gwaine.

“We all left him,” Arthur hissed. “We thought that he would be safe, so we left him. He’s a grown man, and we shouldn’t have to babysit him every time we go out on a quest. He wouldn’t want us to. You agreed with that well enough this morning.”

Gwaine stared at him like he’d grown another head, and the king found himself regretting the words the moment they had left his mouth. “You’re a right coward, you know that, Arthur?” the knight growled, and Arthur went to interrupt, but Gwaine rode over the top of him. “You’re right, he doesn’t need us to babysit him. But if you’re going to insist that he comes with us every time we leave the castle, then actually let him come with us! All the way! Something bad always happens when we get separated, so don’t just up and abandon him when you start to get a bit twitchy. At least I left him something to defend himself with!”

“And maybe if he hadn’t had the sword, they wouldn’t have attacked him! He’s not a knight, Gwaine!” Arthur shouted.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you!” Gwaine roared back. “You seem to think that the universe will leave everything around you untouched because oh, you’re the king, and no-one would dare do anything to upset your perfect little life! Well I’m telling you from experience that it DOESN’T WORK THAT WAY, sweetheart, and if I have to lose someone else – if I have to lose Merlin – because of your gods-damned stupidity, then we’ll have a reckoning, you and I, and I can tell you right here and now that what those little brats did to Merlin will look like a picnic by the time I’m done with your face-”

“Gwaine!” Arthur heard more than one of the other knights gasp, shocked, but the king just stared at the other man dumbly, trying and failing to come up with an argument or excuse to stand up to Gwaine’s abject fury, a justification for his actions. The knight might have continued his rant unchallenged, had the door to Gaius’ chambers not slammed open at that moment, an irate Guinevere suddenly standing straight-backed in the doorway with an equally furious Gaius glaring out at them from somewhere behind her. Arthur tried not to look at the still, white form that Gaius was fussing around, not wanting to have to acknowledge that this was real, that everything wasn’t going to miraculously be better in an instant like it usually was – but his wife’s angry face wasn’t a much more attractive alternative.

“Are you quite done?” Gwen asked icily. “Because we’re trying to work in here, and some peace and quiet would be much appreciated. You’re upsetting Merlin.”

“Is he-” Arthur began eagerly, but his wife cut him off, shaking her head.

“He’s still unconscious. Your shouting match just has him thrashing about, and it’s making it too difficult to put the stitches in.”

“Oh,” Arthur heard Gwaine say guiltily, and Gwen nodded emphatically.

“Yes. Oh. So if you wouldn’t mind taking your issues downstairs…”

“But he will wake up?” Arthur asked desperately, noticing the blood staining Gwen’s arms and hands and soaking through the front of her dress in blotches for the first time. Her expression softened.

“Yes, Arthur,” she said gently. “Head injuries are tricky, but he will wake up. And he’ll need all of you when he does.”

An audible sigh ran through the five of them, some of the tension seeping from the air. Before they could ask for any more information, however, Gaius started calling for Gwen’s assistance, and she shot them a sympathetic look before backing up, pulling the door shut behind her.

“Calm yourselves down, okay?” she called. “This is no-one’s fault but the people who attacked him.”

When the door closed, Arthur found himself agreeing whole-heartedly with her words. They could have done better. They would do better. But… he turned to Gwaine, and saw a similar, feral realisation in the other man’s eyes.

“Maybe we should put our differences aside, princess,” the knight offered, facing him squarely – and Arthur wasn’t sure whether he should be glad for or frightened by the wolfish look in Gwaine’s eyes. “After all, there are six bandits sitting in your cells, waiting for their verdict.”

“Perhaps,” Arthur agreed, fairly certain that his own expression could have been described as wolfish, too. He glanced at the other knights, and found nothing but agreement – and perhaps relieved exasperation – in their expressions.

“Okay, then,” the king said slowly. “What exactly do you think the punishment is, for attacking a member of the royal household?”

₪₪₪₪₪

Ethin was furious.

He was also confused, hurting, and perhaps just a little bit frightened. But mostly furious.

“Who do they think they are?” he muttered angrily. “They can’t just lock us up and… and leave us down here.”

“I reckon they think they’re the king and his knights, Ethin,” Aydin said wearily, leaning his aching head against the stone walls of their cell. “They can probably do whatever they want.”

“Surely our parents will do something,” the third member of their sorry party, Baldor, insisted, wincing and speaking so thickly around his cracked jaw that Ethin could barely understand him.

“Shut up, Bal,” Aydin scolded. “You aren’t meant to talk with that. And I don’t think that you two understand what’s going on here. We’ve been arrested. By the king. There’s not much our parents can do.”

“What for, though?” Ethin said mutinously. “We didn’t kill anyone.”

“You’re an idiot, Ethin,” Aydin informed him calmly. “We got caught. Banditry, remember? We’ll be lucky if it’s fines and a warning, and that’s only if they accept bribes to start with.”

Ethin scowled. Aydin was his cousin, and the only one other than Sara who could get away with talking to him like that. “I still don’t get why they cared so much. He was just a servant or something, right? It’s not like anyone would be too upset if he’d just disappeared.”

Aydin might have replied – and his expression told Ethin that what his cousin had to say wouldn’t have been complimentary – but at that moment the guards finally decided to come back, marching up outside and fiddling with the lock on the barred door until it swung open invitingly.

“It’s about damn time,” Ethin called, relieved, scrambling to his feet as quickly as he could with one arm in a rough sling. Maybe his mother and father had been able to work some of their contacts after all, he thought with satisfaction. Satisfaction which crumbled abruptly when the guards stepped back respectfully, and the king of Camelot himself strode regally past them and into the cell, backed by all four of the knights who had accompanied him in the forest.

Ethin retreated a few steps until he felt the solid wall at his back, then cursed internally at the display of weakness. Thankfully, Aydin took the opportunity to put his wits and silver tongue to use, covering while Ethin scrambled for something to say.

“Your Majesty,” his cousin said smoothly, bowing awkwardly from the waist even though he was seated on the floor, his broken arm resting in his lap. “Thank you for seeing us. Perhaps if we could offer some explanation-”

“That won’t be necessary,” the king interrupted, and Ethin allowed himself a seed of hope. “I have already made all of the enquiries that I need, and I think that we have the situation mostly understood.”

“Well, in that case-”

“Shut up,” one of the red-cloaked knights, a huge giant of a man with cropped hair and bright, watchful eyes advised them shortly. Aydin shut his mouth smartly, perhaps remembering his last encounter with that same man. Ethin might have been imagining it, but he thought that his cousin might have rubbed at his left arm surreptitiously.

“So,” the king continued, as though he hadn’t been interrupted. “I’ve tracked down each of your families, and had discussions with them. This isn’t the first time you’ve gotten into trouble with my laws, is it? Apparently you each had your… allowances cut after your parents had to bribe you out of jail for various offences. Leon?”

A second knight, this one stern and serious, coughed politely and pulled a scroll out from beneath his cloak, scrutinising it with slightly too much enthusiasm, in Ethin’s opinion. “Yes, sire. Multiple counts of public inebriation and nuisance. Breaking and entering. Theft. Displays of violence and disturbing the peace, my lord.”

The king eyed them severely, and Ethin felt the need to defend himself and his friends. “That was ages ago. We were kids. Your Majesty.”

The king ignored him. “This latest offence however, has upgraded you to serious criminal charges. I’ve had several witnesses come forward testifying to multiple counts of banditry committed by the six of you. And, of course, we have my own first-hand account of assault and attempted murder. On a member of my own household, no less. As you can probably understand, I cannot let that slide. I can’t be seen as unable to protect my own staff.”

Ethin scowled again, a grudging understanding blooming. Saving face. That’s what all of this was about. Well. That was something that he could understand, at least.

The king, however, was not finished. His eyes hardened, and something of the terrifying man from the clearing re-appeared in his features. “Neither can I allow people to believe that they can attack my friends and get away with it without serious penalty. Ethin Lowell. Your father informed me that you intend to take advantage of the new laws regarding who can and cannot be accepted into the Knighthood.”

Wondering at this abrupt change of direction, Ethin nodded warily.

“Right. Well,” the king said calmly – almost cheerfully – “that won’t be happening. I can’t have convicted felons in my service – and neither could I stand to see your face every day, not without being tempted to re-arrange it again. That goes for the rest of you as well. None of you will ever see work that is paid for by the Crown’s coin.” Ethin stared at the man as though he had been slapped. They couldn’t… he hadn’t… surely that didn’t ban him from his father’s business, as well?

The king wasn’t done yet, though. “All six of you will be fined for every penny that your parents have ever given you. No more trust funds. You’ll have to get paid work – something which I am informed you find beneath you. And you’ll have to find it outside of the city, because henceforth the lot of you are banished from my kingdom, on pain of death.”

“You… what?” Aydin choked disbelievingly, and Baldor muttered something indecipherable.

“You heard him,” the dark-haired, rugged knight growled.

“Your parents are all quite happy to accommodate my wishes, particularly since I informed them just how very pissed off I am at the moment,” the king informed them. “Apparently they were at their wits end trying to figure out what to do with the lot of you. You three and your friends in the other cell will be escorted from the city as soon as my manservant makes a full recovery, which I am informed in more than likely.” Here his face darkened. “If anything should go wrong, however, and your actions should leave some lasting effect… well. This is Sir Gwaine. Sir Gwaine thinks that I am being too lenient. If my friend upstairs should take a turn for the worse, I might be inclined to let Sir Gwaine try out his own form of punishment.”

Ethin blanched as the indicated knight smiled a shark-toothed grin directly at him.

The king took a step forwards, and Ethin found himself sliding further back into the cell. “Let me make something perfectly clear,” the monarch said dangerously, his hand hovering over his sword. “The man that you attacked is a very dear friend of ours, and as such we don’t like you very much. Should anything like this happen in the future – or should you so much as think about my manservant in a way that I don’t like – I might be a bit more… creative with your sentence. It’s only because I think that it would cause Merlin more stress than he could handle at the moment if he thought that he was in any way responsible for your fates that I’m being as lenient as this. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” the three of them squeaked, and the king and his knights nodded with satisfied smiles.

“Well. Glad that’s all sorted. After all, it’s only been a few decades since Camelot stopped cutting off thieves’ hands. I’m sure no-one would mind over much if I brought it back, just this once.”

“Be seeing you,” the dark haired knight called back cheerfully as the procession strode from their cell, presumably to give the same talk to Sara and the others – and as the door slammed shut behind them with a sense of finality, Ethin found himself sinking numbly to the floor, ashen-faced, and sincerely wishing that they had never clapped eyes on the skinny peasant who had caused them all of this trouble in the first place.

₪₪₪₪₪

Merlin came back to himself in flashes.

The first thing that he became aware of – naturally – was that he hurt. Everywhere. It came and went, flashes of red in a sea of black that left him clinging to unconsciousness for as long as he could.

When he finally woke up fully, he found himself in his own small room, bundled and bandaged within an inch of his life. The light of the few surrounding candles burned into his retinas when he tried to open his eyes, and he hissed loud enough for Gaius to come bustling in with a bowl of soup and a few soothing words – yes, the knights and Arthur were all okay, yes, he’d been sleeping off his blood loss for two days, no, Gaius wasn’t sure what had happened to his attackers – before whatever sedative Gaius had slipped into his meal took effect and sent him under once more.

The second time he woke, he felt stronger. Nausea didn’t roll in his stomach when he opened his eyes, though he suddenly became aware that the right one wouldn’t open all the way, as if something had gummed it shut. In fact, his whole face felt… weird. Merlin frowned, twitching his arm upwards to probe at the abnormality – and then moaned feebly when he remembered why moving that particular limb was a bad idea. He shut his eyes again, riding out the pain.

“Ready to stop lazing about, are we?”

Merlin cracked one eye back open and glared – or attempted to, anyway – at the person lounging easily next to his cot. On one of his crates, no less. He opened his mouth to say something insulting, only to find that his jaw, too, was annoyingly stiff and sore; hardly conducive to saying much of anything, really. Instead, he settled for something simple. “Prat.”

“Idiot,” Arthur said comfortably. “I never said that you could have the day off, let alone three.”

Merlin worked his jaw back and forth, trying to figure out how to convey his displeasure in as few words as possible. He ended up just glaring, and Arthur smirked.

“At least now we know what it takes to get you to stop talking.”

Merlin bit back a laugh, reasoning that it would probably hurt. A lot. Arthur only insulted him that much when he’d been worried. Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because Arthur grimaced and waved one hand vaguely.

“Shut up, Merlin. It’s just been very inconvenient, is all.”

“Wha’… happen’d?”

“After you fainted?” Merlin scowled fiercely. He had collapsed. There was a difference. “We brought you back. Gaius patched you up. You idled around in here. Not much, really.” The king paused, then added grudgingly, “You gave everyone a bit of a fright, Merlin. I don’t remember giving you permission to nearly get yourself killed.”

“Tha’s no’ wha’… I was… asking.”

Arthur’s expression turned serious. “Nothing that they didn’t bring on themselves.” Merlin just looked at him, and eventually the king relented. “We didn’t kill them, if that’s what you mean. I had them banished.”

Merlin’s eyebrows climbed up into his hairline. Arthur glanced away, looking embarrassed. “They nearly killed a member of my household. I can hardly have people thinking that’s something that they can get away with.”

“Right.”

“Don’t look so smug, Merlin.” Arthur paused. “I had them escorted from the kingdom the moment you woke up the first time. They’ll be in Escetir by now, so you don’t have to worry about them. We won’t be seeing them again.”

It might have been the lingering effects of whatever Gaius had given him, but Merlin felt something warm and fuzzy in his chest. “S’almost like you care.”

“Hardly. I’m just here to stall you.” Merlin threw the king an odd look, and Arthur grinned in satisfaction. “Gaius told us you’d be waking up about now, and the knights needed time to prepare.”

“Pr’pare what?”

The door suddenly burst open, and Gwaine’s head appeared through the frame. “Morning, sunshine,” he grinned. Merlin startled, growling when he jostled his injuries. “Nice face, by the way. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that many interesting shades of purple and green. Princess, Gaius wants to have a word with you.”

Arthur hesitated for a moment, looking somewhere between being reluctant to leave Merlin and reluctant to follow through with anything even approaching an instruction from Gwaine. Then he rose regally, stretching. “Fine. Help him up, will you?” The king strode from the room without a backwards glance, and Merlin stuck his tongue out at his friend’s back.

“Right. Up we go,” Gwaine said cheerfully, appearing at his side and slinging one arm underneath Merlin’s shoulders, supporting him as he struggled into a sitting position. Merlin gasped as the movement pulled at his side and chest, and cocked his head to the side with a glare.

“Wha’re you lot up to? Shou’n’t I be resting?”

“That’s what Gaius is talking to Arthur about.” Gwaine happily ignored the rest of his question. “This is the tricky bit. Do you think you can walk?”

“Got a bro’en arm… not a leg,” Merlin grumbled, glancing down at the splint and mountain of bandages around the limb. It throbbed dully, so he supposed that there must have been pain medication as well as a sleeping draft in whatever Gaius had been feeding him. “Is on’y broken, right?”

“Fractured, apparently, but in about a half-dozen places. We were actually more worried about the cut on your ribs. Oh, and you actually literally got stabbed in the back.” Merlin huffed. That seemed a lot less dramatic than a break. Then he glanced down at his chest, realising for the first time that he wasn’t wearing a shirt – just a thick wrapping of bandages criss-crossing the breadth if his upper body, to match those around his upper left and lower right arms. His vision swam, and he suddenly wondered if getting up so quickly had been a good idea.

“’waine,” he slurred, somewhat shakily. “Could you get me something to eat?”

The knight’s joking expression softened. “This can wait ‘til later, you know, if you’re not feeling up to it.”

Merlin shook his head, breathing deeply. “Curious now. Jus’… jus’ gimme a minute.”

His friend nodded, and when Merlin’s vision stopped wobbling around the room, Gwaine had appeared again with another bowl of soup. “Here,” the knight said, shoving it into Merlin’s good hand and watching in amusement as – too hungry to be bothered with juggling a spoon – he simply lifted it to his mouth and slurped it up happily. Merlin felt decidedly better with something in his stomach, and found himself looking quizzically up through the door as the rest of the knights – Leon, Percival, Elyan – piled noisily into Gaius’s chambers.

“Are we ready?” Elyan’s voice drifted up the landing, and Merlin shot Gwaine a questioning look.

“Ready and raring,” the knight called back, winking. “Here,” he added more quietly, offering his arm. “You won’t have to go far.”

Merlin eyed the limb warily for a moment, not liking the idea of hobbling around like an old man, but his curiosity got the better of him. They were up to something, and he wanted to know what.

Supported by Gwaine, he managed to stumble up onto his feet and down the stairs, into the main room – mainly by ignoring the disconcerting tugging sensation of the stitches in his side. He blinked at the sudden brightness pooling in through the windows, and ducked his head when he found five sets of eyes watching him expectantly.

“Hi,” he said shyly, not really knowing why. The knights grinned back, and Gaius raised his eyes to the heavens.

“If this sends him into a relapse, I’ll be laying the blame squarely at your feet, sire,” he informed Arthur drily. “He should be resting, recovering, not gallivanting about the castle two seconds after waking up.”

“That’s what this is for,” the king said, gesturing off to the side, and Merlin’s heart sank when he saw what they were talking about.

“No. No way.”

“It’s that or Percival carries you. Gaius is right. You look like your about to fall over.”

Merlin eyed the wooden chair sitting innocuously in the entryway in distaste. Now he knew why the knights had been so noisy getting through the door. It was no ordinary chair, either – it had actual handles on each arm, to enable someone, presumably the knights, to carry it while occupied. It was, in short, the oddest looking chair that Merlin had ever seen, and he wondered if Arthur hadn’t had it commissioned especially.

“Sit, Merlin. Gwaine, help him.”

Thirty seconds later, despite his protests, Merlin found himself seated squarely in the strange contraption, being ferried awkwardly out the door by Percival and Leon, with Arthur and the other knights tagging along behind and Gaius shouting after them that they’d better be back within the hour. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, particularly on the narrow staircases, but Merlin had to admit that he wouldn’t have been able to manage the stairs on his own – even if he did turn bright red the first time they passed someone in the castle corridors, much to Arthur’s amusement.

By the time they exited the castle, Merlin was nearly dying from curiosity, and the smug, self-satisfied expressions of Arthur and the tight-lipped knights weren’t helping. When they eventually deposited him in the middle of the training grounds, of all places, he decided that he’d had enough.

“All righ’. Out with it. Wha’re we doing ‘ere?”

“Well, you see, Merlin,” Arthur said haughtily, “it has been pointed out to me – vigorously – that you are, by no means, a knight. In fact, I have no idea how you managed to mark that bandit without decapitating yourself in the process. So we thought that maybe it was time we fixed that.”

Merlin looked at the king strangely, confused.

“I’m not knighting you, if that’s where you think this is going,” Arthur snorted. “We just thought that maybe it would be better if, in the future, you could do a semi-decent job of protecting yourself. Just in case next time we don’t get back quick enough.”

“Not that there’s going to be a next time,” Gwaine growled, and the other knights nodded emphatically.

A small grin worked its way onto Merlin’s face, ignoring his protesting jaw and growing wider as Arthur produced a sword from one of the training racks. “I’m assuming you know what this is. And which end’s the sharp one.”

“Well it’s certainly not you.”

The knights sniggered. “Very funny, Merlin. The point is, you can’t do much with that arm, but you can watch and learn from the knights. And, once you’re feeling better, you’ll be spending a couple of hours a week with them here in the training grounds, rather than in the tavern.”

Merlin took in the solemn expression on Arthur’s face, and the expectant, eager looks that the knights were giving him. They were serious about this. His grin got wider. “Well,” he said. “Okay, then.”

Arthur seems to deflate somewhat, as though he’d been expecting an argument. “Good. Right. Well, you lot know what to do. Basic drills, we wouldn’t want his tiny little brain exploding.”

“Thank you,” Merlin called, as loudly as he could manage, and his friends shot him grins before ambling off to grab training equipment, partnering up where he could clearly see their movements and slowly going through the most basic drills and sequences, calling out when they thought he should be paying attention to something in particular.

“I’m serious, Arthur,” Merlin said more quietly, watching them. So, he had his magic. Sometimes, like in the forest, he couldn’t use it. And he’d always wanted to learn how to use a sword properly. Plus, this just went to show, once and for all, that the knights truly did care for him. “Thank you. And not just for this.”

“Well,” Arthur said gruffly, feeling that they might be straying dangerously close to emotional territory. Merlin might have been awake, but he still looked awful; bruised and swollen and obviously tired and in pain, his movements stiff and unsure. One of his eyes was still almost entirely closed, and his left arm hung just as limp as ever. There were close to fifty stitches hiding under those bandages, Arthur knew – and seeing Merlin trying to grin, cheerful and happy, made him think of that same, incongruous, faith-filled expression on his servant’s face when they’d first found him. Merlin was resilient, Arthur decided. He was going to be okay. And Arthur had never been gladder for it. Ascertaining that the knights weren’t within hearing distance, he swallowed his pride and, just this once, said what was truly on his mind.

“I’m sorry,” he said gruffly, and he saw Merlin twitch in surprise. “Gwaine was right. We should never have left you. This way, you’ll be able to come with us when we go questing. All the way. I don’t… I said that you gave everyone a fright. You damn near gave me a heart attack, Merlin.” He paused. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

“I’m glad I’m alright too,” Merlin said impishly. “Now I can make sure that you never forget that you just said that.”

Arthur couldn’t help it. He burst into gales of laughter, and after a moment’s hesitation, Merlin joined in, hunching over and wheezing in merriment until the knights stopped their drills and stared, small smiles working their way onto their faces as they watched the king and his manservant laugh together. Gwaine shook his head ruefully. Those two. They were utterly incorrigible.

And Camelot wouldn’t have been the same without them.