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Arthur smiled very faintly. He gave no reply, a testament even beyond his appearance to how weary he was. His eyes were bloodshot and lined by heavy bags, the lids sagging. He still wore armor, dented and grimy, and his chainmail was ripped. Over his right knee, his breeches were torn, and beyond the hanging cloth, Merlin could catch a glimpse of a crusty gash.
“Come on,” he said, moving the last step or so to grab Arthur by his shoulder and steer him toward the changing screen. “A bath and some food will do you some good.”
i.e. Soft hurt/comfort after a nasty battle.
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Sooo sweet. Giggling and kicking my feet
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