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Merlin is not a stupid man.
Arthur knows this, knows that despite how he teases him for being empty headed and a bumbling fool, Merlin is anything but.
Likewise, Merlin is brave. Possibly the bravest of them all. He lived under Uther's nose, in a kingdom that hated and persecuted people like him, and he never ran.
And then he revealed his magic to the entire court, in order to save Arthur's own life, nearly at the expense of his own.
He should have expected there to be push back from that reveal, or the place Merlin now has publicly at his side. But he doesn’t. Not after he made it abundantly clear that Merlin is not to be trifled with, that he is protected, that the punishment will not be merciful if anyone harms him.
Of course, he also told Merlin to come to them if someone disobeyed his orders and caused him harm.
He forgot that Merlin has never once obeyed a single one of his orders.
…
It starts small.
Whispers as he walks by, sharp looks and glares. He hears some of what they say, that he’s a magic traitor, that he’s bewitched Arthur, or that Arthur has him on a tight leash, that he’s no better than a mindless dog who does what his master demands.
That last one especially made him chuckle to himself for a long time, the fact that these nobles are stupid enough to think he could ever be controlled.
Because it’s mostly the nobles and the older knights who are constantly tittering amongst themselves, not to say none of the servants are in on it too, but most of them don’t look at him any differently. He spent too much time among their ranks, and too many of them still had parents or grandparents who used to use household magic for them to see it as pure evil.
Then the words turn harsher. It goes from idle gossip to whispered threats, just loud enough for him to hear, always when he passes by alone. No one dares do anything when one of the round table are with him, but they have their own lives to lead, and he won’t abide being chaperoned.
It stings, though, when they mutter about how he ought to be burned, or beheaded, or drowned. How sooner or later Arthur will get tired of him and see sense, see how dangerous it is to have a sorcerer by his side, that it’s only a matter of time before they’ll have their way.
He keeps his head down and ignores them all, focusing instead on his bond to Arthur, on the warmth and love coiled in his chest, making it easier to block out their hatred filled eyes and venom laced voices.
He ignores the feet the stick out in front of him so he trips and falls, ignores being shoved aside in the hallways hard enough it bruises, ignores the gestures that just so happen to go wide and slap him or elbow him, ignores the occasional deliberate punch when someone manages to find him alone in an unoccupied hall, ignores the hits he takes in the armoury on late nights when he’s alone polishing armor and a group of them stumble by, too drunk to care about the consequences.
He ignores it, shrugs it off, casts a glamour to hide the bruises, because this is nothing, honestly, he’s had so much worse that he barely even feels what they’re doing. They don’t even hit that hard, to be honest, he’s not surprised that the nobles have weak punches, but he’d honestly expect more from the knights that decide he’s sport.
He figures eventually they’ll get tired of it, realize that he’s not going anywhere, and Arthur doesn’t want him to, and they’ll move on, end of story. Arthur has enough to worry about, and this he can handle on his own, as he’s been handling it for years. He doesn’t expect it to actually escalate. He doesn’t think they’re stupid enough to actually hurt him.
He’s so very, very wrong.
…
Arthur wakes with a jolt.
Something is wrong.
Something is very, very wrong.
He doesn’t know what, but it coils in his stomach, turning it to stone, ice creeping up his spine, uneasiness crawling through his gut.
It’s Merlin, he realizes, with a curse. He focuses on their bond, usually warm and full, freezing when he finds it cold and still, a slow, sluggish sense of dread and fatigue the only things he can feel through it.
He curses again and throws on clothes as quickly as possible, wondering what the idiot could possibly have gotten into this early in the morning, just after the first chime of the bell tower. It’s easier to think insults at him than to consider what must be actually happening to Merlin right now, as he throws open his door.
“Sire?” Leon, thank the gods it’s Leon, because the knight can keep a cool head, and help him keep a cool head.
“Something’s wrong with Merlin. He’s in danger, possibly... possibly hurt. I can’t tell.” He rubs at his chest, the feeling of the frozen bond making him wince as it tugs on his bones.
“I’ll get the others. Do you think you can lead us to him?” Leon asks, and he pauses, focuses. Pokes and prods at the thin tendrils linking him to Merlin, and he nods difinitivley after a moment.
“Yes. Bring torches, I think they’re deep, in the tunnels.” Leon doesn’t question it, just nods and heads off to wake the rest of the round table knights.
…
Honestly, it’s hard not to roll his eyes at this point.
He’s been through this so many times, and it’s always the same.
Something is demanded that he won’t or, in this case, can’t, give, because for once he’s not actually doing anything, he points that out to his idiot captors and then they decide that torture will somehow get him to see their side of things.
This time, the idiot is Sir Gallant and his cronies, and the demand is a vague stop doing whatever it is you’re doing to influence the king’s mind, which, again, he is literally not doing anything besides existing.
Of course, it shouldn’t surprise him at this point that someone takes issue with his mere existence, it seems half the world takes issue with his existence most days, and he’s just so... tired of it.
This attack hadn’t even been clever. He’d been exhausted from working on setting up magical shields around the citadel at the request of the council, and with the approval of Arthur, so he maybe hadn’t been paying as much attention to his surroundings as he should have, and before he could react he’d been shoved against the wall, a cloth held tightly to his face, forcing him to breath in the sickly sweet scent.
He’d awoken with a pounding headache, his wrists chained above his head in cold iron to dampen his magic, and so he had to stand on his tip toes to keep all his weight from resting on them. The cell he’s in also oozes a malevolent aura, glyphs inscribed on every surface for the purpose of suppressing magic, the walls thick, cold stone, that slow his thoughts, dampen his senses.
All he knows is he’s somewhere deep, deep below the castle, and that there’s no way he’s getting himself out of this one. All he can do is focus his mind elsewhere, divorce himself from whatever is happening to his body, no matter how painful.
…
“you sure, Princess?” Gwaine asks, navigating the tunnels under the castle, the early morning hour adding to the eeriness of the rough stone spaces.
“I’m sure. He’s close, but the sense of him… it’s getting muddled, like something is twisting my perception.” He answers, rubbing at his chest once more, which aches with cold.
“It’s the stone. It dampens magic. There were whispers, during the purge, of suspected sorcerers who wouldn’t confess being locked up in the tunnels and left to rot away in the darkness." Leon answers, eyes glimmering with worry.
“It’s a maze down here. How’re we going to find him, if he’s tucked away in some abandoned corner?” Elyan, frustration and anger tempering his voice.
“We know he’s close. Split up. Mark the entrances of any tunnels you enter so you can find your way back and know where you’ve been. We’ll meet back here every half mark to report until someone finds him. Move out.” His orders are descjsive and confident, two things he doesn’t feel in this moment, but he squares his shoulders, and forges ahead.
…
It’s dark.
Entirely and completely dark.
He can’t see anything, not even his nose in front of his eyes, and that in and of itself is enough to make him feel claustrophobic.
It’s silent, too, except for his rasping breaths and a steady drip, drip, drip that seems to drill itself into his skull.
He’s so used to the quiet of the castle, filled with the sounds of passing conversations or distant bird song, the hustle and bustle that fades into the background but is always present, that to face this complete and utter lack of sound makes his breath speed, pressure building in his chest as it feels the walls are closing in on him, unable to see or feel the world around him in any way, buried alive in this stone crypt that is slowly suffocating him.
His muscles strain, every inch of him shaking as he dangles from his arms, something wet trickling down them from his wrists, and he thinks distantly it must be blood, and that’s what the dripping sound is. His blood, drip, drip, dripping onto the floor.
He supposes the darkness is better than the fire.
His breath catches once more as the agony floods over him all over again, the flames dancing in his vision as leering faces come closer, taunting him with it, holding torches to his bare skin until he screamed, writhed to get away, the scent of his own flesh clogging his nostrils-
“Merlin?! Can you hear me?” a voice, he knows that voice, it makes him shudder with relief, though he can’t place it, it screams of warmth and safety. He yearns to call out to it, to reach towards it, but no sound will pass his lips, all he can do is hang here and wheeze.
He feels tears slipping down his face as he hears footsteps retreating, eyes slipping closed, resigned to the darkness, as the drip, drip, drip lulls him into unconsciousness.
…
“This way.” It’s all Leon needs to say, as they meet back up, everyone falling into line behind him, winding through passageways, until they stop before what looks like just another part of the stony corridor.
Bringing the torches closer though, reveals the truth. Heavy stone doors, carved out of the earth around them, line this hallway, engraved with glyphs that he doesn’t understand, but recognizes all the same, from the magic books Merlin has shown him.
“This is the only one locked.” Leon says, gesturing to the door they’ve stopped in front of, stepping back to make room for Gwaine. At another time, Arthur might have teased him for being so adept at picking locks, but now all his focus is on the door, afraid of what they’ll find behind it.
“Done. Percy, help me push.” Between the two of them, they manage to shove the door open, everyone flinching at the grating sound it creates, though as soon as the sound stops they all hesitantly step inside the small box like room.
“Merlin.” HIs voice is a whisper, as he rushes forwards, eyes flitting over every inch of him, though it’s hard to see clearly in the shadows cast by the torches, there’s enough light to see that he’s bruised and bloody, hanging from his wrists, which are caked in blood, his breath wheezing and wet.
He scoops Merlin into his arms, getting the weight off his wrists, calling Gwaine forwards once again to pick the lock on the iron cuffs, Merlin’s entire frame sagging with relief as soon as they’re removed, his breath coming a little easier, though not nearly as deep or even as Arthur would like.
Through it all, Merlin doesn’t so much as twitch a finger, simply lying limp in his arms, dark hair stark against his too pale skin, painted with red, far too much red, and he flinches, as he carries him out of the room, the bond starting to warm back up, waves of despair and pain crashing against his senses from Merlin.
“Elyan, go alert Gaius, Percival, Leon, go with him then start canvassing. I want to know who did this. Gwaine, Lancelot, with me.” Everyone nods, splitting up, the assigned knights rushing off down the hall, as he cradles Merlin closer, trying not to jostle him too badly, not knowing how badly or where he’s injured, besides his wrists.
It’s not until they emerge from the tunnels into the inner courtyard and the early morning light that he truly grasps how desperately hurt Merlin is.
“Gods.” Lancelot whispers, and he feels much the same, looking down at Merlin’s torn and tattered clothes, the bruises littering his skin, some fresh, some old, and that makes his blood boil too, because this isn’t a one time occurrence, he has been being hurt for an extended period of time, and hadn’t told anyone. That’s not to mention the cuts littering his body, the sores on his wrists, but the worst, the absolute worst, are the burns blistering across his skin, charred and black, no doubt exceedingly excruciating.
“I’m going to kill them.” Gwaine’s voice is far too even, far too controlled, and he knows that Gwaine is full of simmering rage, is a hair away from snapping, the only thing tethering him the fact that Merlin needs him.
“I’ll pardon you.” He replies grimly, making his way to Gaius’s healing rooms, letting love fill his chest, pushing it towards Merlin, letting it fill him, hoping he can sense that he’s safe.
…
He hurts.
His body pounds, every inch of him aching, his head pounding in time with his pulse, and it pulls a rasping whine from his throat as he opens his eyes, squinting because it’s so bright. He doesn’t remember it being bright. He remembers it being dark, and cold, and lonely, his magic trapped against his chest, burning in his veins along with the fire crackling against his skin.
“Merlin?” He shifts his gaze minutely, though he can’t seem to focus, his vision blurry and drifting, blobs of color dancing across his eyes. He can’t tell who it is, really, everything is fuzzed. He flinches at a hand coming towards his face, memories of harsh slaps and balled fists flashing through his mind, making his head spin.
“Easy, m’boy.” He settles as the hand just rests gently against his forehead, cool and relieving against his too warm skin, and his eyes flutter shut against the soft touch. He tries to speak, but his throat protests, a wheeze the only sound escaping his lips. “Shh, don’t try and speak, Merlin. Just let yourself rest.” He doesn’t have much choice, given his protesting vocal chords, no doubt still raw from screaming. He shudders again, a chill wracking through him.
“Here.” Another blanket is tucked in around him, and he pauses, because they don’t have blankets this thick or warm in his or Gaius’s chambers, and their mattresses aren’t this soft, either, so he must be in Arthur’s room. He wonders where the King is, and feels like he should be more worried about Arthur’s location, but he can’t hold onto thoughts right now. He doesn’t know why that makes him start to panic again.
“You’re sedated, Merlin. Painkillers, feverfew, and some spells, to dull your senses. That’s probably why you’re having trouble focusing or staying alert.” He wants to protest, that he’s fine, that he’s had worse, that he doesn’t need to be drugged up to handle the pain, but instead a wave of nausea floods through him, and he squeezes his eyes shut, fighting through it.
“G... gallant. It w’s Gallant.” He manages, the effort costing him as he sinks back into a dark, deep sleep.
…
Next time he wakes, he feels more like an actual person and less like a sentient punching bag.
He can also feel Arthur hovering at his bedside.
“I’m sorry.” He croaks, opening his eyes, meeting Arthur’s.
“Gallant is being held on charges of attempted murder. We apprehended his accomplices based on correspondence and notes found in his residence. He has obviously been stripped of all titles.”
“Arthur-”
“Gaius will be up shortly, to check on your injuries. He’s assured us everything is healing well, your magic seems to be aiding in the process.”
“Wait-”
“I’ll be in later, as well.” Arthur turns to leave, and he can’t.
“Arthur!” He lunges forwards, grabbing onto Arthur’s sleeve, losing his balance and toppling forwards, onto the floor if not for Arthur catching him, the contact making the bond explode in his chest, the emotions Arthur had been tamping down flooding him, springing tears to his eyes at the amount of fear and hurt and pain radiating from Arthur, and he clings on tighter.
“I’m sorry.” He whispers, feeling Arthur stiffen for a moment, before letting out a huge breath and melting against him, pulling him close, Arthur burying his head against Merlin’s hair.
“You didn’t say anything, why didn’t you say anything?” Arthur gasps out. He shakes his head.
“I thought I could handle it. It... it wasn’t that bad, not really.” Arthur huffs disbelievingly, drawing back just enough to cup his face, a frown on his lips.
“I saw the bruises, Merlin. They’ve been... been beating you.” He averts his eyes with a low sigh.
“I didn’t think it would escalate.”
“That’s not the point! The point is that they hurt you at all! That you let them hurt you, after I told you to come to me, told you to defend yourself if you had to! No one should have ever laid their hands on you, not even a single finger. Why did you let them?”
“If I fought back it would only have been worse. They would have used it as provocation to attack me openly, to say I was being aggressive. And it’s not like I’ve never dealt with this before. Hell, it’s not like I haven’t been tortured before.” Arthur's eyes are wide and stricken, and he winces. “I probably shouldn’t have said that.” He mutters, not meeting Arthur's eyes, afraid to look at his face.
Then arms wrap around him and he’s surprised by the gentle ferocity with which Arthur pulls him back onto his lap, cradling him close like he’s something delicate and precious.
“Never. Again.” His breath is stolen by the surge of protective rage that sweeps through Arthur, at the thought of him being harmed, a sob tearing out of him despite himself, pressing closer to Arthur almost desperately.
“I’m sorry.” He manages, throat hoarse, and Arthur just hushes him gently, pressing a kiss to his head.
“You don’t have to do it alone, anymore, Merlin. You can’t, or you’ll keep getting hurt like this, and I can’t… I can’t stand feeling you like this, seeing you like that… gods, Merlin, I thought you were dead.” Guilt churns his stomach, and he knows Arthur feels it, feels how sorry he is, feels how lost he is.
“I don’t know how. I don’t… I’ve spent so long, keeping most of my life a secret from everyone, from you, I don’t know how to ask, I don’t even know when I should!”
“If you’re hurt. It doesn’t matter if somebody hurt you, or you did something stupid and hurt yourself. It doesn’t matter if it’s a physical hurt or a mental one. It doesn’t matter how small or insignificant it seems, or how big the hurt is, if you are hurt you must tell me, let me help, and not try and hide it.”
“I… I’ll try. I can promise you I'll try.” Arthur squeezes him gently, before pulling back slightly, enough to rest his forehead against Merlin's.
“Thank you. I know it must be hard. I can’t imagine, all you’ve had to manage on your own, how you managed...” He shrugs.
“I had to. So I did.”
…
Oh, Merlin.
His sweet, stupid, far too brave Merlin.
He can’t stop seeing Merlin, dangling lifelessly from the cold iron chains, pale and still.
To hear he’s not only been abused before, but has been literally tortured, to hear him speak of it so casually, as if it doesn’t matter…
It makes his blood boil. It makes him seethe with rage at anyone who has ever dared lay a hand on him, it makes him want desperately to press Merlin for details, to explain who and why, to know what depth of secrets lie behind his too tired eyes, but he won’t. Not now, not when Merlin is so fragile, here in his arms.
“Never again.” He murmurs, breathing in Merlin's air, refusing to move away from this moment of intimacy. He can’t begin to fathom the amount of pain Merlin must have endured, for his sake, how many times the man had nearly died for him, to treat this incident so casually, and he hadn’t known.
But he can make sure it never comes to this again. He will.
Merlin has spent enough time protecting him. It’s his turn now, to take of his Merlin, and gods save anyone who tries to harm him again.