Work Text:
Merlin felt as though his whole being radiated weariness. It lurked deep in his bones, thrummed in his lungs and the beat of his heart, and stretched its thin fingers through each muscle and memory. His body sagged; its silent language murmuring, weary, worn, burdened.
For a long, long time, he lay with his eyes closed against the back of the sloped tub, the hot water seeping slowly into his skin and quietly lapping away at the blood, bruises, and stains that marred his body. He'd hated the idea of a bath, of watching servants bring buckets of hot water as he used to—gods, how he hated everything lately—but Arthur had insisted.
Arthur insisted on a lot of the things Merlin did now.
Insisted he sleep. Insisted he not withdraw completely from Arthur, Gwen, and their inner circle. Insisted he care for himself—eat, shave, go outside, not lose himself in books and magic and regret...
"Sir."
He opened his eyes—heavy with weariness. His chest ached.
Seldon, Arthur's manservant, inclined his head and gave just the hint of a smile. Friendly, and far more fatherly than a twenty-five year old man ought to be.
Merlin's chest ached more.
"Sir, His Majesty asked after you. He also sent me to assist you, considering your injuries after today's battle."
Merlin swallowed, struggled to make his shaky limbs obey him, and after a moment, managed to sit. The water streamed off his chest, arms, and back, pink with the grime from the day. "Thank you, Seldon," he said quietly. He reached for the soap bar, abandoned after he'd washed his hair an hour ago, and began to rub it across his upper body. "If you'll just bring me the towel, I'll be done in a moment."
He finished the bath. Seldon had to assist him in standing; his legs were shaky, the tub was slippery, and the wounds on his body caused enough pain to be a hindrance.
Seldon didn't say a word, only helped him out and left him to dress with another smile and a slight bow.
Finally, after what felt like eons, Merlin made his way across the room on shaky legs. He opened the door and managed to descend the few stairs to the next level.
The king, who'd been sitting by the fire with a glass, stood and turned to watch him. "You look better," he said.
The ache in Merlin's chest, coupled with the weariness that clung tightly to every inch of him, didn't allow Merlin to speak. He merely nodded.
"Sit down," Arthur said. "You still look half dead."
Merlin obeyed, settling in the second chair by the fire. Arthur moved away, and the sound of crackling flames was momentarily accompanied by the flow of liquid and clink of glass. Another moment, and a glass was placed in Merlin's hand.
"Drink it," Arthur said, both absent and stern. "No more reflecting tonight, Merlin. It was an awful day, but it's passed now."
"Thank you," Merlin whispered hoarsely. His eyes burned. He took a drink, and the liquid warmed his throat as it went down.
A thick, warm blanket was dropped across his shoulders. The hands that placed it there paused for a moment.
A squeeze, then a gentle, careful knock to his head, and—fondly— "Shut up now, Merlin."