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There was so much blood. He moved under the cover of darkness, stalking in through Camelot’s defences and past the Guards, knowing the changeover times perfectly. How could he not? Camelot had been his home for seven years, and in all that time, he’d never been this lost.
It wasn’t all his.
Merlin looked down to the footprints he was leaving, winced when he noted they were dark marks on the cobbles. Not water, more likely the blood soaking his form, a thought that made him think back to what had happened outside of the sanctuary of Camelot.
He had no choice. That was the mantra in his head, thoughts of Arthur and the Knights, how he had to protect them. How he couldn’t go to sleep, knowing that Arthur’s battle was approaching, how he’d soon have to face an un-faceable foe. A blood-slick blade, Arthur’s pained shock as he slumped down on the battlefield, taking with him the Druid.
Hearing voices, he drew back against the wall, panting as he clutched at his side. The wound wasn’t the worse, but it was the one that ached the most, that made progress slow as he made his way to the Castle.
He couldn’t go to Gaius. Waking him would be a mistake, especially considering the hour. It would draw too much attention, plus he knew how his Uncle was struggling to deal with all that was happening. After Agravaine’s beady eye and accusations, he’d never been the same, and Merlin couldn’t risk suspicion landing on him.
Lancelot would have been his next call. That stabbed him in the gut, far worse than the actual wound.
There was, logically, only one person Merlin could go to. He continued his trek, made it to the Castle and snuck in past the Guards, using the age-old tactic of a noise around the corner. With them suitably distracted, he went on to the Knights’ Quarters, down towards the end of the corridor.
He knocked twice, wondering if the torches were supposed to be blurring.
The door took a while to open, and when it did, Merlin was greeted with those haunting blue eyes, vaguely noted that Mordred looked like he’d been asleep.
‘M’gunna pass out.’ He informed the Druid, before doing exactly that.
**
Mordred was not panicking.
Not at all.
His hands shook as he searched for the source of the blood, but all that came back was a red stickiness that had his gut tightening. Emrys hadn’t stirred since he’d fallen, with Mordred lifting him onto his bed and hesitantly reaching for his shirt.
It wasn’t until the fabric was gone that Mordred realised what being Arthur’s protector meant. Emrys hated him, judged him, and the Druid had never understood why. Merlin’s prejudices were long-standing, and as much as he’d tried to impress the Warlock, he’d never managed.
Now, wiping the blood from his form, Mordred realised Emrys had come to him. That there was nobody else in Camelot he’d trusted, and the Druid hated how he felt so pleased on the fact.
Then Emrys was whining in his sleep, tensing up, and Mordred was brought back to the present. His shirt was soaked, scrunched up in a ball on the floor, torso littered with cuts and scratches and was that a burn?
It wasn’t all his, it couldn’t be all his.
Mordred didn’t know what to do. He was no Healer, he had no particular skills, and he had the life of Emrys in his hands.
He came to the conclusion he was out of his depth, and so, with one last look at the Warlock, hurried from the room. Merlin had trusted him, and Mordred would not betray him by going to Gaius or Arthur.
But he did need help, which drew him to the door in front, knocking quickly and harshly, realising he had blood on his hands.
The door opened, and Mordred was greeted by the sight of a Knight who didn’t particularly care for him much. Make no mistake, Sir Gwaine was a friendly man, but he had noticed that Merlin did not care for Mordred, and that made him colder towards the Druid.
‘Mordred?’ Gwaine looked confused, then focused on his hands.
‘Help. I… I need help.’ He paused, choking back on a sob he hadn’t realised he was holding in.
‘It’s Merlin.’
**
Mordred watched as Gwaine continued his work, not muttering anything except from occasional soothing words to the man on the bed.
Gwaine hadn’t asked. He’d told him to fetch water and fresh linens, ripping them up and washing Merlin’s torso, revealing the worst of the injuries. Mordred had watched, mostly in awe, as the Knight stitched up the Warlock without hesitation, without questions.
When he was rolled over, Mordred taking note of the way that Gwaine cradled Merlin like he was afraid he might break, both of them fell silent.
The scar was old, but it didn’t stop Mordred’s knees from giving out. Raised veins itched across his pale back, tracing over whip-marks as they went, charring the usually milky skin. Mordred may be young, but he recognised a Serket sting when he saw one.
Gwaine’s hands were trembling now, shaking as they tried to clear Merlin’s back of blood.
The Druid knelt on the opposite side of the bed, finding his stomach as he forced himself to copy the Knight’s actions. Together, in silence, they began to work the blood from his skin, revealing the injuries underneath.
‘I…’
‘Hush. The less I know, the better.’ Gwaine stated firmly, eyes never leaving Merlin’s form.
‘You know.’ Mordred knew that Sir Lancelot, the Knight that had died, had known Merlin’s secret.
‘Not everything. I know enough.’ The way Gwaine reached for Merlin was tender, soft as his fingers traced Merlin’s cheek.
‘M’dred?’ Merlin slurred, eyes blinking open as he began to wake, golden rather than blue.
‘Shh, Merls, stay still.’ Mordred wondered how he’d never noticed it before, the one that the Knight used when he spoke to Merlin.
The Warlock made a sound in the back of his throat, whether from pain or affirmation, Mordred couldn’t tell. Instead, Emrys reached for Gwaine’s hand, bumping into his thigh on the search, before falling still again.
‘Why did he come to you?’ To begin with, Mordred thought the question was jealousy.
He realised a moment later what Gwaine was insinuating, and Mordred tensed. Magic was illegal in Camelot, and if the Knight decided he was not worth the risk…
‘I’m a Druid.’ Mordred whispered, clasping his hands in his lap.
Gwaine looked up at him, waited for a moment, then looked back down.
‘What did you do, to make Merlin fear you?’
That was the question, was it not? Why was Emrys, the most powerful sorcerer alive, hating him.
No, Gwaine hadn’t said hating.
He’d said fear. Afraid.
It made sense, even if it didn’t. Merlin was afraid, that was why he treated Mordred differently. Mordred could only think of one thing that would make Merlin so scared, and it revolved around the King upstairs.
Clearly, Gwaine had come to the same conclusion. They sat in silence, while Mordred tried to work out what he would do now.
‘It wasn’t all his.’ Mordred pointed out, looking down to the discarded tunic, then back to the sleeping Warlock.
‘I know.’ Gwaine’s fingers threaded into Merlin’s hair, while his other hand stayed in Merlin’s.
‘Should I…’
‘I’ll take him to my room. Can you… get rid of the evidence?’ Gwaine gestured to the bloody bandages, to Merlin’s tunic, and Mordred nodded slowly.
Gwaine hadn’t been told by Merlin, he’d figured it out.
‘I would never hurt Arthur, or Merlin.’ Mordred found himself saying, as Gwaine scooped up Merlin’s body and tucked his cape around him.
Gwaine lingered, looking back to him.
‘Convince Merlin, not me.’