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It’s far from uncommon for the knights of Camelot to encounter unforeseen skirmishes- especially with the kingdom’s interpersonal history. Fortunately, the king and his knights were well trained in combat, far better than their usual opponents. Their familiarity with each other’s skill and well developed dynamics made them almost invincible in battle and otherwise.
Typically, though, the majority of their violent encounters are against bandits, rouge magic users, and saxons. Typically, they don’t encounter entire small foot armies invading their borders while away on casual hunting trips.
——
They had won. Arthur kept reminding himself of the fact. In the end, they were victorious, they were unharmed. He really shouldn’t be bothered, but he found it impossible to train his attention on his surroundings as the knights and Merlin investigated the army’s camp and prepared to leave. None of his men were wounded or killed. But the attack had been unexpected and unnerving nonetheless. On trips such as these, it was impossible not to be on guard, expecting bandits and other dangers at any moment. But to come across a small army of an enemy kingdom…
He didn’t know what to think. He knew only that they had to return to the citadel and prepare for the possibility of war.
He should really be focusing on that, but another factor disturbed him beyond this uncertainty. Merlin.
He had almost been hurt, seriously hurt, in the fight. Most people could take down a charging bandit, but it was far less likely for someone as untrained as his Merlin to defend himself against an experienced soldier.
Arthur kept finding himself back in that moment, imagining the inevitable truth of what would have been if he hadn’t been in just the right place to pull Merlin out of danger, safe and away from the threat of death. The knife had just missed him, but it was aimed for his throat.
He re-experienced it, the nauseating, cold dread, over and over. His memory became fuzzy until all he could recall of the battle was the knife and the look of acceptance in Merlin’s eyes as he stood in front of Arthur.
Time seemed to slip away from him, like water through his fingers, into a crevice where he couldn’t follow. He found himself back at Camelot’s gates.
——
-Hours later-
Arthur’s shoulder plate fell to the ground as he released the strap with a pitiful tug. Merlin would have flinched if he had the energy, but the act was too meaningless to draw a reaction, despite the scruff it would undoubtedly leave. The scruff Merlin would gladly polish to nonexistence tomorrow. In this moment, it mattered not. Merlin trailed behind Arthur, allowing him to tug thoughtlessly at his armor until the motivation left is movements and his arms swayed limply at his sides.
They stood in silence, Arthur inhaling, exhaling audibly. Merlin took a single step forward, his wordless stoicism still holding strong. He put a hand to the side of Arthur’s shoulder, let it rest for only a moment longer than would typically be allowed, and turned Arthur to face him.
Slowly, still ever silent, Merlin began to remove the remaining armor. He pulled the chain mail up over his king’s head and guided him to the edge of his bed. Kneeling before him, he gently untied the laces of Arthur’s boots and pulled them carefully off of his feet. Then, softly gripping his lower shins, Merlin turned his face up, finally, to meet Arthur’s eyes.
He knelt at his King’s feet, knees sore against the hard harsh stone floor, staring into his eyes. Wordlessly, Merlin offered himself to Arthur as a friend, a servant, a training post, whatever he needed in that moment. Arthur’s eyes looked back, watching rather than searching, as if observing a day pass by from the window of a lonely tower.
Seconds, minutes, passed unnoticed by the two. Eventually, receiving no answer to his wordless question, Merlin stood. Arthur watched as he busied himself, lighting the hearth. Merlin left his sight, returning far too long after, with pails of water. Leaving, returning, leaving, and returning, until a fire burned below a cauldron of near boiling water.
Arthur didn’t realize how much time had passed by without his notice until Merlin returned to stand before him, guiding him upward, to undress him gently and lead him to the large tub of warm, aromatic water that now sat in the middle of the cold room. Oils, deep purple flower petals, and herbs Arthur couldn't name swirled lazily upon the surface.
As soon as his feet met the water and the steam rose up his chest, Arthur felt himself returning to himself, his awareness of the room and clarity of his situation swelled slowly as time passed by, now easier for him to hold onto. He found himself sitting in the bath, eyes closed, when he felt Merlin step behind him. Usually at this point, Merlin would leave or busy himself with chores, but now Merlin knelt once more. His hands came to rest on Arthur’s shoulders, thumbs along the sides of his neck, for a long moment. One hand reached a small wooden bowl into the water, raising it again to ever so gently tip Arthur’s head back and pour a warm stream down the back of his head, protecting his eyes with his other hand. He repeated this, eventually bringing his hands up to knead soap into Arthur’s hair, fingertips brushing his scalp.
Arthur nearly cried.
In all his life, he had never been cared for so tenderly, nor touched with such gentleness and compassion, as by Merlin. In the earlier years of his ever-changing life, positive touches were limited to a slap to a shoulder, the playful punch of an arm, or a painful, proud squeeze at the base of a neck. To have almost lost Merlin, this new source of an unimagined good, just hours before…
Water dripped down his collarbones and sideburns, goosebumps raised at Merlin’s touch, despite the consuming heat. Soon, Merlin maneuvered to Arthur’s side, into his range of vision, to wash his shoulders and arms, drawing them up and out of the water to scrub away the sweat and grime, rinse off the suds, and massage in the scented oils awarded only to the highest of nobles. Arthur let him, no longer limp, but not resisting, as Merlin lifted his arms higher to gently investigate the bruises on the sides of his ribs. Merlin pressed softer than ever when cleaning these tender areas, careful to bring nothing but comfort to Arthur.
It was then, while watching Merlin and recalling the minutes(?) that led up to this moment between them, that Arthur realized this was the answer Merlin had come up with to his silent question. And that Merlin, as he so often seemed to be, was right. Nothing else, no words or silence could help Arthur in that moment. If Merlin left, Arthur would be lost, resorting to helpless, frantic destruction, either of himself or the room around him. Merlin knew. And he didn’t try to talk him through it either. Arthur didn’t need inspiration or an offer of a comfortable shoulder. He needed this exactly.
Despite the emptiness he hadn’t quite overcome yet and the painful weight of the day’s events creeping at the far corners of his mind, Arthur smiled. He listened to the sounds around him, to the wind through the window and the breath of his friend, and allowed himself the peace it all offered.
When the water began to cool, Merlin helped him rise and dry himself. He led him back to the bed. Arthur let him- despite not needing the physical support any longer- because he knew that tomorrow, he would deny himself this contact, and that all would return to normal as it needed to. But for now, Merlin dressed him in a night shirt and trousers and tucked the layers of sheets and blankets around him. He lit a candle by the bedside and stoked the fire. As Arthur drifted off, he didn’t think about the burdens that the sun would bring, nor the uncertainty of the day. He thought simply of Merlin’s fingertips on his scalp and the smell that had not yet started to fade from his hair and skin. His strong pulse as he washed away Arthur’s day. He listened as Merlin sorted the papers at his desk. As he walked to the doors of the chambers, Merlin paused, hand hovering above the handle, and whispered the only words spoken between them since they returned home. “Good night, Arthur.”
The same words spoken every night.
Arthur was asleep before he could respond. The skin between his eyebrows was smooth. Not a single dream occurred to him.