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Arthur had never understood his servant's attachment to that ratty triangle of fabric he wore around his neck. When he had first met Merlin, in fact, Arthur had downright hated it. He'd pestered his servant about it on many occasions, questioning the practicality, the fashion, the function of the neckerchief. Of course, Merlin never failed to follow up with a clever retort, but he never really answered the question, and eventually, Arthur got bored of teasing Merlin for his clothes and moved on to something else.
As the years passed, however, Arthur's derision for the odd neck-wear faded, and before long, he found himself associating the neckerchief with Merlin himself. It got to the point where seeing Merlin without the accessory felt strange, and before he knew it, the prince realized that he actually liked that stupid scarf – though he would die before he admitted it to Merlin.
Now that he was older, perhaps a bit wiser than he had been as a young prince, King Arthur had a feeling that it wasn't so much the neckerchief that he'd grown to like, but the person who wore it. And since Merlin and his neckerchief were one and the same, it stood to reason that the king would have grown fond of it as well. Not that he would ever admit his affection for his servant out loud, either, of course. Not in so many words – or any words, really. That just wasn't how his relationship with Merlin worked.
Indeed, somewhere along the way, Merlin's neckerchief had become as much of a staple in Arthur's life as the servant himself. And yet, in the span of one bandit attack during a morning hunt, that all changed.
It had started off, as these things often do, as a normal patrol. It was a beautiful day, bright and warm, the sort of day where you would never expect anything horrible to happen. And yet –
It had been a week since the hunt turned to hell, and Arthur could still recall it so vividly that he might as well have been experiencing it all over again. Those five minutes of torture had branded themselves so deeply into his mind's eye that every time he fell asleep, he would go back – back to the forest, to the bandits and their laughter and their hands holding him back, holding him down. Back to the sounds. Oh gods, the sounds. Gagging, choking, panicked breaths, a mouth gaping open like a fish's, searching desperately for air that wouldn't come. Blue lips, still chest, and laughter. And, of course, in the center of it all, Merlin's beloved neckerchief.
One Week Ago
"Looks like we got a fine catch today, gentlemen!" The short, ugly brute of a bandit grinned at Arthur, half of his teeth rotten and the other half missing all together. "Is this a knight of Camelot we've stumbled upon?"
Arthur was relieved that they hadn't recognized him to be the king, at least. He tried to be as inconspicuous as possible on his outings, having Merlin hold on to the royal seal if they were going anywhere outside of the citadel – bandits generally ignored servants and focused on the more important looking people, after all. It was a clever trick, provided Merlin didn't lose the seal. So far, he'd kept up with it well enough on their journeys, and this time, it seemed to be paying off, as these bandits thought they were playing with just another knight and his servant.
But that didn't change the fact that Arthur and Merlin had been taken off guard, ambushed, and tied hand and foot by a band of ten morally bereft, muscle-heavy monsters who wouldn't know hygiene if it crashed into their thick skulls. Arthur had been shoved to his knees and held there by four men, who still struggled to keep him still. Two other men had done the same to his servant, but other than the usual bumps and bruises from fighting a losing battle, neither Arthur nor Merlin were hurt.
Arthur may not have been injured, but he was angry, mostly with himself. He'd known it was a bad idea to go on a hunt without any of the knights or guards to accompany him. He'd let Merlin come along because he knew that the obsessively loyal servant would have followed him anyway, and he'd much rather have Merlin by his side so he could keep an eye on him instead of being forced to listen to him thrashing around in the undergrowth making a racket while trying to be stealthy. As Athur had been reminded by his council many times, he was king now, and he had a responsibility to think not only of the safety and well-being of his people, but of himself as well. That meant no more running around in the forest on hunts or patrols without a guard. That meant telling the council where he was going to be at all times so that they would know to send someone after him if he didn't get back in time.
But Arthur had had enough. It had been a month since his father's death, and he was stifled in the castle. Even when he wasn't in Camelot, people still surrounded him on patrols and hunts, and even when those people were some of his closest friends – the knights – he often felt like he was being smothered, and his skin crawled at the thought of having to sit through one more council meeting or supervised hunt. He'd needed to get away. He'd told Guievere where he was going, of course. And then he'd grabbed his servant, all but dragging him out of the castle at the break of day, and they'd passed a pleasant enough morning, with Merlin scaring away half the prey. But as with most good things in King Arthur's life, this too had to end. The ambush had been unexpected and swift, and Guinevere wasn't expecting him back until evening – they were on their own.
As casually as he could, Arthur implored the bandits, "You have me, a knight of Camelot. My servant is of no use to you. Let him go."
The short, stocky bandit who seemed to be in charge considered this for a brief moment before crossing his tree-branch arms across his chest. "So he can run back to your coward king and bring a rescue party? Not likely."
"We're miles away from Camelot," Arthur pressed. "You could be long gone with me before he brings anyone back."
From the corner of his eye, Arthur watched Merlin frantically shake his head. Arthur ignored him, and prayed that the idiot would stay silent. All it would take would be Merlin saying "Arthur" one time, and the bandits would realize their mistake – and quickly seek to rectify it. Thankfully, Merlin seemed to be aware of the situation, and for once, blessedly, kept his mouth shut.
The leader ambled forward, brow creased as if thinking were incredibly painful for him. "You seem awfully keen to protect that servant of yours. Most knights don't give a damn about the help if their own lives are in danger. What's so special about that one?"
Arthur maintained eye contact with the brute before him. "I care about all those I have sworn to protect as a knight."
"Oh, that's rich!" A chorus of laughter from the surrounding bandits grated at Arthur's nerves. "Nah," the man continued, casting a glance over his shoulder at the skinny servant who glared defiantly back. "With those pretty blue eyes, I reckon he's more than just a servant."
"Yeah," called one of the bandits forcing Merlin to kneel. "The knight's consort I'd wager."
The leader swivelled back to face Arthur. "Is that it, Sir Knight? Is he your consort?"
Arthur didn't answer.
"Oh, now you clam up." The bandit leader seemed genuinely disappointed that he didn't get an answer. He peered at Arthur through slitted, suspicious eyes for a few charged seconds. Then he threw back his head and laughed.
"Well, lads, why don't we have a bit of fun before we head out?"
Arthur glanced at Merlin, and saw the servant looking back at him with wide, uncertain eyes. To Arthur's surprise, Merlin didn't look scared. In fact, Arthur thought that his servant appeared to be more conflicted than anything, like he was trying to make a difficult decision. Baffling as that was, it was hardly the most important thing on Arthur's mind at the moment.
The leader signaled to the men holding Merlin, and then everything went to hell.
One of the men lashed out with frightening speed for someone of his size, landing a devastating blow in the center of Merlin's back at the very second the servant was released. Arthur watched the kick connect, heard the pained cry, felt the thump as Merlin sprawled face-first onto the forest floor, hands tied behind his back, unable to move, barely able to breathe. Arthur had received similar kicks before, and he knew all too well the terror-inducing breathlessness that accompanied such injuries. He'd rarely wanted to kill someone as much as he wanted to kill the bandit who had inflicted such pain and panic on his servant.
But they weren't done yet. It got far, far worse.
The leader of the bandits stepped forward then, and squatted at the feebly stirring Merlin's side, still facing the king. Every muscle in Arthur's body tensed; his heart pounded deafeningly in his ears. Something very bad was going to happen, he could feel it in every fiber of his being. He'd seen enough violence and war and bloodshed, enough monsters, to know that this was far from over.
The bandit leader reached over and fingered the fabric of Merlin's neckerchief – he'd worn the blue one today. Arthur watched the idea form in the man's head even as Merlin began to recover a bit of his breath and attempted to squirm away from the bandit's touch. "Interesting fashion choice," the leader commented, sarcasm slathered generously on each word. "Makes my job easier though."
He clenched his meaty fist around the back of Merlin's scarf, and, keeping his eyes trained on the knight before him, slowly pulled up.
To Arthur, the world had slipped into slow motion. It was like the minutes just before a storm, when nature held its breath, birds forgot how to sing, and all of creation readied itself for the violence to come. He watched, horror coursing through him, as the first waves of realization and then panic dawned on his servant's dazed face. Blue eyes bulged wide, mouth opened in a soundless scream, and still, the bandit pulled.
The bandit took his time. He was in no rush. Arthur could see from the wild, glassy glint in his beady green eyes that he was relishing the control he had over the situation, over the man he was strangling. He never looked away from Arthur, not even when the agonized choking, coughing, gasping, hacking sounds began in earnest. Arthur, for his part, tried to ignore the man, and, as much as it hurt him, tore at his soul and twisted his stomach, the king kept his eyes on Merlin, trying to offer him comfort, reassurance, anything. Until Merlin's eyes started to dim, and his eyelids drooped as if a heavy weight had been tied to them, and the frantic heaves of his chest grew weak, and he knew Merlin was dying.
Despite his resolve to remain strong and unaffected, and despite his hopes that the bandit leader would grow tired of his cruel game if he thought Arthur was not emotionally invested, Arthur lost control. It had become clear to him that the man torturing Merlin did not care if he elicited a reaction from his other prisoner. He was tormenting – killing – Merlin because it was fun for him; the pleasure had written itself into his bright eyes and twisted smile. And Merlin was going to die.
Arthur lunged forward, a feral yell bursting from the deepest part of himself, and even with his hands bound behind his back and his ankles tied together, he nearly managed to shake off all of the four men holding him – and then three more added to their number, and Arthur found himself face-down just feet from Merlin, who was all but unconscious, barely fighting to breathe, and the pressure of the bandits on top of him was crushing. Arthur barely felt it beneath the weight of his failure.
The bandit leader now loomed over both master and servant, and to Arthur's surprise, he eased up pressure, releasing his grip slightly on Merlin's neckerchief and allowing the servant to drag in desperate, halted breaths, his eyes now bulging. Merlin coughed, deep, raw sounds grinding out from a shredded throat. Arthur could see a terrible, angry red line circling Merlin's neck, just beneath the neckerchief.
"Merlin – are you all right?" Arthur kept his voice low, hushed.
Tears were streaming down Merlin's cheeks, whether from fear or lack of oxygen or pain, Arthur didn't know. He tried to speak, and his voice hurt to hear; he sounded like his vocal chords had been slashed. "Aarrrrr…"
"Shhh," Arthur soothed, partially out of concern for Merlin's health, partially out of fear that Merlin would reveal Arthur's true identity. "It's okay, it's okay. Just breathe, okay? I'll find a way out of this." And Merlin looked at Arthur with such unmitigated trust in his gaze that Arthur felt like running himself through with his sword, because he had no plan. He had no hope. Surely, Merlin could see that, even in his state. Arthur had seven bandits piled on top of him, holding him motionless. The guilt crashed into Arthur with all the force of a battering ram into a fortress door. This was all his fault.
"S'not … your … fault," Merlin heaved out with great difficulty, and Arthur's blood ran cold. He was certain he hadn't said that out loud. How had Merlin known? It hit him – Merlin had known that Arthur was blaming himself because he knew Arthur.
The moment shattered as the bandit leader butted in, voice loud and abrasive, sending chills of fury across Arthur's flesh like an attacking army. "Now that you've got your breath back, Merlin, let's start from the top."
Arthur watched Merlin's eyes go wide with fear, and Arthur must have been giddy with it himself, because he could have sworn he saw a tiny bit of gold swirling in their depths right before the neckerchief was tightened and the imagined flame died out, and only terror remained.
The second time was just as slow and measured as the first. The bandit applied pressure in the tiniest increments, and this time, Arthur got a front-row view of the light leaving his friend's eyes. The noises were even worse up close, the coughs and gasps taking on the helm of death rattles. Merlin thrashed at first, trying to escape, to breathe, to do anything, and his lips lost color and turned blue, and now he was barely moving, barely breathing, and this time, the bandit leader had no intention of stopping.
Merlin's head and shoulders were now being held aloft by only the fabric around his neck, and his struggles ceased completely, his chest stilled.
Arthur squirmed desperately beneath the hold of the seven bandits, but even the adrenaline screaming through his body was not enough to throw them off. He could fear hot tears on his cheeks, knowing that if Merlin was not dead now, he would be soon. Arthur had been tortured before – it wasn't a common occurrence, but it had happened. And yet, nothing had prepared him for the kind of torture he had endured – was still enduring – in watching his closest friend die slowly and painfully, terrified, right in front of him. Arthur wanted to rip the men who were doing this limb from limb. He wanted to slowly squeeze the life out of the one strangling Merlin.
He wanted them to be strangling him instead.
All seemed lost – and would have been, if a Camelot patrol hadn't heard the commotion from a distance and come to investigate. There were six men, and they had the element of surprise. One moment, all was anguish and torture and the gut-clenching quiet that came at the end of life. The next, a short, fierce battle raged all around him. As soon as the bandits loosened their grip on him and Gwaine cut him free, Arthur joined the fight, catching the sword tossed at him by Elyan.
He ran through the man who had tortured his servant personally, with the same level of twisted glee and intimacy with which the man had strangled Merlin. It was so much more than he deserved.
Once the bandits had all been slain and lay scattered on the forest floor, Arthur raced to Merlin's side, slamming to his knees beside the servant. His hand shook so badly as he felt for the beat of Merlin's heart that Elyan had to take over, and his dark eyes were grave as he looked back at Arthur and shook his head.
"No," Arthur said simply, refusing to believe that Merlin was truly gone, that he had watched his friend die terribly before his eyes. "No, check again."
"No time for that," Gwaine snapped, falling to his knees on the opposite side of the servant and bending over the prone body. The blue of Merlin's lips was almost as vibrant as the color of the neckerchief that had so cruelly been turned against him.
The next few minutes passed in a blur of anxiety, disbelief, and finally relief, as Gwaine breathed for him, Arthur pounded on his chest, and Percival carried him home.
Merlin hadn't worn his neckerchief since that torturous day. He was sullen and nervous, jumping at small noises and avoiding Arthur, and refusing to wear anything to cover up those ghastly bruises.
He hadn't been able to talk for nearly a week after he'd woken up; Gaius said he was lucky that his windpipe wasn't crushed. But even after, Merlin barely spoke.
And gods, those bruises.
They encircled Merlin's pale neck like a grotesque mockery of the very scarf that had caused it. They had reached the stage where the very edges had started to yellow, but the inner ring was black, mottled with red and blue. Just looking at it hurt, and it was a constant reminder of the torture Merlin had gone through … and that Arthur had gone through, watching him. Arthur could not fathom that Merlin would prefer to walk around with those bruises in plain sight – surely they had to trigger bad memories as much as, if not more than, the neckerchief?
It was stupid, but Arthur couldn't stop himself thinking that when Merlin wore his neckerchief again, it would mean things were back to normal. That he was okay.
And so Arthur had a neckerchief made out of the finest material Guinevere could procure in the market. It was silk, so soft to the touch that Arthur wouldn't have minded falling asleep in it. It was a deep, Camelot red, and so light it was almost weightless.
When he presented it to Merlin, yesterday morning, the servant's eyes had twitched down to it, and where Arthur had thought he'd see gratitude, maybe even a hint of a smile, he saw only trepidation. Merlin had rasped a pained, "Thanks," then grabbed the scarf by one corner like it was a serpent poised to strike and shoved it into his pocket, out of sight. He hadn't worn it since.
"I don't understand," Arthur said to his wife over dinner, distress clear in his voice. "I replaced it."
"He's just not ready," Gwen soothed, though her brow was knit in worry.
"It's of a much finer material than his old one," Arthur insisted, as if he were trying to convince Gwen that Merlin should wear it.
"You have to be patient with him, Arthur. What happened to him was… traumatic. He has to come to terms with it in his own time."
Arthur scrubbed a hand over his face. "I just can't stand looking at his bruises."
Gwen squeezed his hand, her eyes sad and wise and more beautiful than anything that Arthur had seen. "I know it hurts," she said, "and I mean no disrespect, but… Arthur, this isn't about you. It's not about your discomfort, it's not about the pain you went through seeing Merlin be hurt like that."
Arthur opened his mouth, unsure of what he was going to say, not even knowing if he was going to argue or agree with her.
Gwen held up a hand. "I'm not saying that what you went through was unimportant. I can't even imagine watching…" She trailed off, shuddered. "But you can't expect Merlin to wear something that causes him so much pain and fear, just because it makes you uncomfortable."
Arthur knew she was right, and told her so. He would have to find a way to look past the bruises, for now.
Merlin was avoiding Arthur – there were no two ways about it. He got to work early, woke Arthur, and then ran off to do the rest of his chores. Finally, at the end of week two, Arthur cornered him in the armory.
"Merlin." Arthur's face was serious, his eyes uncharacteristically concerned.
"Sorry, Sire, I have work to do," Merlin said stiffly. His voice still sounded as if it were being painfully squeezed from him. He tried to leave, but Arthur caught his arm, pretended he didn't see Merlin flinch.
"For the love of… if I give you the day off, will you stay and talk to me?"
Merlin's eyes were wide and his scowl looked more pathetic than annoyed. "I suppose I have little choice in the matter."
Arthur's heart constricted. "Merlin, I—"
"Look, I'm sorry I haven't been wearing the neckerchief," Merlin blurted, avoiding Arthur's eyes. "I just… I know you we retrying to help, but… Hold on, I'll go get it right now," he flustered. His cheeks were red and his eyes bright.
"Merlin, stop."
Merlin stopped.
"I realize I haven't been fair to you," the king said slowly, carefully. "I haven't been patient. What happened was… wrong. Do you need to talk to me about it?"
The dam broke.
Arthur had never seen Merlin cry like this before. He'd seen tears in his friend's eyes on various occasions, but never had he witnessed the choking, uncontrollable, full-bodied sobs that were now wrenched from the depths of Merlin's soul. At first, Arthur stood, uncertain, terrified that he was going to say or do the wrong thing, but then he thought of Merlin, and tried to imagine what he would do for him if the king were in this situation. A strange calm descended over him, and he gently took Merlin by the arm and guided him to the nearest chair – Arthur's chair, the most comfortable one in the room, the one he never let anyone else sit in, not even Guinevere (she had her own, anyway).
He eased Merlin down, knelt beside him, and wrapped one arm around his servant's shoulders, and just held him while he released all of the pain and frustration and fear and trauma he'd been skirting around for weeks. Arthur felt the hot sting of a tear mark a course down his own face, and he didn't brush it away. He felt, like Merlin was feeling – felt the pain of the torture inflicted on them both, felt the violent sobs shaking Merlin's wiry frame, and finally, felt the tremors ease and stop all together, but he didn't withdraw his arm. He might have even squeezed a little bit tighter, as if assuring himself that his friend was still there, still breathing, despite how hard those bandits had tried to kill him.
Finally, Merlin shifted awkwardly, and Arthur became acutely aware of the fact that his arm was still around the servant's shoulders, and he withdrew with a start, backing away with haste.
Merlin turned to look at him, and his eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, the bruises on his neck still visible and angry, and tear tracks streaked down his face. Arthur watched him apprehensively, afraid that Merlin was going to say something emotional that Arthur wouldn't know how to respond to, or worse, openly acknowledge the unusual level of tenderness that had permeated that moment. Instead, Merlin quirked a watery half-smile and simply said, "Thank you."
Relieved, Arthur smiled back. "You're welcome. Feeling better, are we?"
Merlin gave a small, almost timid, nod. "A little bit, actually. I think."
Desperate for some return to normalcy, chest warm with the hope that Merlin really would be okay, someday, Arthur folded his arms across his chest. "Then get your scrawny arse out of my chair."
Merlin actually laughed then, and settled in deeper to the comfortable seat. "Sorry, sire," he said. "I think my scrawny arse is stuck here until further notice."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. Merlin blushed. "I… I don't think I can stand right now," he admitted, and Arthur noted with concern that Merlin's knees were indeed trembling. Merlin was trembling.
Arthur rolled his eyes like it was some great inconvenience. "Fine," he said. "Laze about like the useless servant you are. I'll fetch Gaius."
Merlin surged forward at this, almost fell flat on his face. "I don't need –" He broke off as Arthur shoved him back in the seat. "Gaius."
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "You were saying?"
Merlin had never looked so much like a sullen, scolded child.
When Arthur returned, Gaius not far behind him, he was shocked to find that Merlin was still where the king had left him. Even more surprising was the fact that Merlin held the silk neckerchief that Arthur had gifted him, almost reverently, gazing down at the fabric with a faraway look in his eyes.
"Merlin, where did you get that?" Arthur asked.
"My pocket."
"You've been carrying that around all week?"
Merlin didn't answer, but he didn't need to – it was obvious that he had been.
Arthur heard Gaius shuffle through the door behind him, but did not turn. He kept his eyes on Merlin, who continued to contemplate the scarf like he had never seen anything like it before. "Merlin, you don't have to wear that," Arthur said in a rush. "I just thought–"
"I know," Merlin interrupted, and that's when Arthur knew his servant was on the mend, because a Merlin who lacked all decorum and propriety was far more normal than one who was actually good at being a proper servant. "But, it's nice. And I was thinking, I've never owned anything so fine." He paused. "But I think I'll leave it at home when we go on hunts and patrols from now on." He gazed up at Arthur imploringly.
The king felt Merlin's eyes on his front and Gaius's on his back. He looked Merlin straight in the eyes and said, "You don't have to wear anything you don't want to, Merlin. If you never wear a ridiculous triangle scarf again, that's completely fine. Don't do it because you feel like you have to. You won't hurt my feelings."
Merlin grinned – a full, mischievous smile that Arthur hadn't seen in far too long. "When have I ever given you the impression that I care about protecting your feelings, Sire?"
Arthur tried to look stern, but ended up laughing out loud. "Fair point," he conceded.
He and Gaius watched with bated breath as Merlin tied the new neckerchief very loosely around his neck. A moment of tense silence, then –
"Does this make me look like a prat?"
"Merlin!"
Arthur knew that the ordeal wasn't over just because Merlin had put on the neckerchief. There would still be nightmares and anxiety and days where Merlin couldn't stand to have anything touch his neck. But this was progress. This was hope.
For this one moment, this was Arthur and Merlin, as they had always been, and all was well with the world.
For now, that was more than enough.