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Arthur watched through half-closed eyes as Merlin moved around his chambers. He was sitting at his table, dressed for bed, firelight gleaming off damp skin. The bath had helped with the aches from the mission, but it hadn’t eased the sharp sting of multiple wounds.
He’d been lucky, though. Bruises, cuts, and minor abrasions were scattered across his body, but he’d made it home. The same couldn’t be said for all his men. Those who had returned were dealing with far worse injuries: broken bones, and wounds that had Gaius setting up a makeshift infirmary in a larger chamber further down from his own, unable to fit them all in.
Arthur once would’ve boasted it was skill that had kept him safe. But he knew those men, fought with them his entire life. As usual, it was as if something – or someone – was watching over him, protecting him from the worst of the battle.
“Is there anything else?” Merlin’s voice was soft. He’d even picked up a scrape of his own during the battle. While Arthur usually mocked him for hiding, this time, he’d ordered Merlin to run when he realised they were surrounded. It had somehow come as no surprise when the man refused and stayed in the thick of things. He was lucky only a few scrapes were all he’d suffered. More than lucky.
Arthur watched him. He wanted to ask him to stay. Wanted the feel of another body next to his, the rush of being alive, a steady heartbeat beating against his own. A reminder they’d both made it back.
But he was exhausted. Judging by Merlin’s sluggish movements, so was he. The king shook his head.
“Go home,” he ordered in a soft voice. “Get some rest. Take tomorrow to help Gaius; he’s going to need you.”
The physician might have a wealth of knowledge, but he wasn’t a young man anymore. Tending that many patients with serious injuries was going to take a toll on Gaius. Arthur had no idea how advanced Merlin’s knowledge was despite having lived with the physician for years, but if nothing else, he could fetch and carry, take the strain off his mentor.
Merlin nodded. He had to pass the table to reach the door. As he did, his hand cupped Arthur’s face, thumb brushing over his cheek. Arthur smiled and tilted his head into the touch. Merlin’s fingers lingered, but he eventually stepped out of reach.
“Sleep well, sire,” he murmured.
Arthur watched him go. Once the door was shut, he glanced longingly at his bed. He wanted to sink into the soft mattress, have the blankets draw the last of the chill from his heart. But it seemed too far away right now, and he remained sitting at the table, slumped with an empty goblet in front of him.
Eventually, the fire had died down too much for him to remain there. Hauling himself to his feet, Arthur groaned as his body protested. He stepped towards the bed, but despite the exhaustion in his limbs, his mind was now wide awake.
He couldn’t help replaying the ambush, his hand clenching as he recalled the instant he realised they were outnumbered, and the opposing force were well-armed, skilled, and surrounded them. Sounds of the battle echoed in his mind.
The king snatched up a cloak. He couldn’t stay here, resting in a soft bed, while some of his men fought for their lives. He needed to check on them; ensure Gaius had everything required to treat them; remind himself they’d made it home.
He didn’t bother dressing. Just shrugged on a cloak and boots and moved silently through the castle. It was late: the corridors were deserted apart from patrolling guards. All the servants had retired for the night and the sconces cast dancing shadows on the otherwise empty corridors.
Arthur wasn’t paying attention to where he was going. He intended to visit the chamber where he knew his men were resting, but his hand had pushed open the door to the physician’s chambers before he realised where he was.
The sight in front of him made him stop dead.
Merlin had his back to the door. His shirt was off as he bent over a small washbasin, a cloth in one hand. His bowed head elongated the arch of his neck. But Arthur didn’t notice.
Their relationship had moved from master and servant, to friends, to something more, a long time ago. Stolen kisses in the dark, fumbling hands in the privacy of Arthur’s chambers. But it had always been a frantic, fast-paced coupling: the only clothing removed was that which was necessary for what they had in mind.
He’d never seen Merlin naked. Now, he realised, he’d never seen him without a shirt on, either.
Apart from a few cuts and bruises over the years – plus drinking poison – Arthur had never seen Merlin hurt. He expected an unblemished back.
He couldn’t have been further from the truth.
There were several small scars, silver marks in the dim light, that spoke of minor cuts. Arthur recognised them: his own body was covered with similar marks. But at the base of Merlin’s back, just above his breeches, a patch of puckered skin spoke of a much deeper wound. A far more serious wound.
It had healed, but Arthur could tell it wasn’t that old. It certainly wasn’t a childhood injury Merlin had carried with him since before he’d arrived in Camelot.
Something made Merlin spin around. Arthur wasn’t sure if he’d made a noise, or just the sense of being watched made him turn. Merlin paled as soon as he saw the king, reaching for his shirt-
“Don’t.” Arthur’s voice was hoarse but his order was still obvious. Merlin froze, watching him with wide eyes. His breath was short and shallow, and Arthur could tell it was costing him not to try and cover himself.
It wasn’t just one wound on his back.
Arthur’s gaze was initially drawn to a large scar right in the centre of Merlin’s chest. The skin was darker than the rest of his pale torso and Arthur recognised a burn when he saw one. But it was huge, at least two handspans. Given its position and apparent severity, Merlin shouldn’t still be alive.
Arthur didn’t notice he’d stepped forward until the gap between them disappeared. A hand lifted, hovering over the mark but not touching.
He forced his gaze away, searching the rest of the man’s body. Lower down, closer to his hip, was another scar. At least, it would be a scar one day. Right now, the flesh was still new and pink: a recently healed wound. The size and shape told Arthur everything he needed to know: it had been made by a cross-bow bolt. Again, given the position, Merlin was lucky to be alive.
There were others, just like his back. Signs of skirmishes and fights, wounds long healed but leaving their mark nonetheless.
Arthur’s gaze slowly lifted until it locked on Merlin’s eyes. Merlin blinked, breaking the moment between them and turning away, snatching up his shirt and pulling it on. The material got caught and Arthur normally would’ve had had a teasing word or two, but he recognised the flush to Merlin’s face.
“Why are you ashamed?”
It wasn’t the question he wanted to ask. He wanted to know what the hell had happened. He’d always thought Merlin was lucky in fights; he seemed to walk away without a scratch when trained men fell. But this map across his body spoke a different story: struggles that Arthur knew nothing about.
Merlin looked away. Arthur caught his chin and turned his face back, repeating his question. Merlin couldn’t meet his gaze.
“I should’ve been quicker, stronger,” he mumbled. It was as if he didn’t know what he was saying, forgetting Arthur had no idea where these marks had come from.
“What of the men next door?” Arthur asked, his tone just as quiet.
Merlin blinked at him, confused.
“Should they have been quicker?” He clarified.
“No! They fought with everything they had.”
“That is true for you, too.”
Merlin should’ve died several times over if these wounds were anything to go by. But he was still here, still standing in front of Arthur, unable to meet his gaze. The king was burning to ask how, why, when, but he held his tongue. There was something fragile in the air between them right now, and Arthur was certain that if he asked, something irreparable would crack in their relationship.
“I-,”
“These should’ve killed you,” Arthur said. This time, his hand rested on Merlin’s chest, feeling his heart racing through the thin fabric of his shirt. “But you’re still here. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Merlin surged forward, lips pressing against Arthur’s with an almost frantic need. Arthur knew he was being played; Merlin was trying to make sure that no further questions were asked. But he let it happen, drawing him closer.
“No more hiding,” he murmured when they parted. His arm was snaked around Merlin’s waist, holding him against him. “And no more turning up for work when you should be resting!”
He wondered how many times Merlin had tried to fulfil his duties while recovering from one of these wounds. And how many of those times Arthur had mocked him for being slow and cautious in his movements, and sent him to clean out the stables just because he could.
“It’s alright,” Merlin said. A finger traced Arthur’s cheek and Merlin’s expression indicated he knew what the king was thinking. “You didn’t know.”
“About that-,” Arthur began.
Merlin smiled. “Later,” he promised. He drew back, tugging his shirt into place properly. “I should get back to Gaius; he only sent me to clean up.”
Arthur had no idea if that was true or not, but he wasn’t going to argue.
“That’s where I’m going,” he explained, “I’ll come with you.”
Merlin gave him a quizzical look, a familiar glint back in his eye.
“Did you get lost?”
“I own the castle, Merlin, of course I didn’t get lost,” Arthur retorted. He rolled his eyes with a small smile. Merlin grinned back at him.
“Then you can carry these,” Merlin said. He picked up a basket and shoved it into Arthur’s arms, surprising him with the weight.
“I’m the king, not a dogsbody.”
“So, helping his men is below the king, then?”
“Shut up.” Arthur nudged the man with his elbow, hands otherwise full, and Merlin grinned at him.
As his servant picked up more supplies, Arthur was pleased to see he’d lost his pale complexion. But there was still something guarded in his expression: still something that said he’d had no intention of Arthur finding out about the scars.
Now he knew, Arthur fully intended to get to the bottom of what exactly Merlin had been up to throughout his time in Camelot. But now wasn’t the time. He had men to tend to; more egos to soothe with the reassurance they’d done all they could.