Chapter Text
5 Times Arthur Notices Merlin’s Knee Hurting and Doesn't Say Anything, + 1 Time he Speaks Up
The sound it makes is like a branch breaking — that thick, splintering crack that splits the world for a moment into before and after.
Merlin hits the ground hard. The gavel — a crude, iron-headed weapon some raider’s lifted from a smithy — connects squarely with his knee before he even sees it coming. There’s no time to think, just a flash of white-hot pain that wipes out breath and thought alike. He rolls onto his side, teeth clamped so tightly the edges grind.
Around him the battle rages — steel on steel, men shouting Arthur’s name like it’s a promise of safety. But Merlin knows the sound of his own body breaking. He knows, instantly, that he’s not getting up again unless he does something drastic.
The joint is a wreck. He can feel it: the kneecap displaced, the tendons like torn ropes. He tries to shift, and the agony sends him half-blind. He presses a shaking hand against the injury, fingers trembling over the ruined shape beneath his trousers.
He doesn’t have time. The knight who’d swung at him is already lifting his weapon again, roaring in triumph at the sight of a fallen servant.
Something in Merlin snaps.
He shoves his hand against the wound and whispers words no mortal throat was meant to shape. They taste like iron and thunder.
Ic hæle þé mid eald wærc and éðelblōd, mid lig of lífe and bān of bearn.
Magic erupts from him in a blinding flare. It fills the joint like molten gold, knitting sinew, forcing bone against bone. The world narrows to a scream, his scream, as the spell seizes his body and mends what should not be mended.
It works. The bone realigns; the pain dulls enough for him to stand. The knight collapses before he can swing again, his weapon clattering uselessly into the mud.
Merlin stands over him, panting, leg shaking violently. He can’t tell if it’s blood or magic he feels running under his skin — both, maybe. The joint holds. That’s enough.
He limps through the rest of the fight, half-conscious, the world reduced to flashes: Arthur’s voice shouting orders, the glint of chainmail, the acrid sting of smoke. Every step is agony, but the spell holds him upright, and that’s all that matters. If he falls, Arthur will fall too.
When it’s over — when the air stills and the only sound is the moaning of the dying — Arthur moves through the wreckage with that careful half-limp of exhaustion every soldier carries, scanning for survivors.
When he finds Merlin, the boy is standing — somehow. His face is pale, his hands still faintly trembling. Arthur says his name once, then again, and Merlin startles as if pulled from far away.
“You’re limping,” Arthur says.
Merlin looks down, then laughs too easily. “I tripped.”
Arthur frowns. There’s a tightness to the way Merlin bears weight, like one wrong move will undo him. But Merlin keeps walking — to the wounded, to the fires, to anything but rest — and Arthur, overwhelmed with too many losses, lets it go.
Later that night, he sees Merlin cleaning blood from his trousers by the fire, the cloth clinging wet to his knee. For one moment, Arthur almost asks. He doesn’t.
Later, when they return to Camelot, Gaius is waiting with that look — the one that says you’ve done something extraordinarily stupid, and I’ll love you through it anyway.
He cuts away the fabric around the knee and hisses softly. “Dear boy… what did you do?”
Merlin shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Just a bit of magic. Mended it up so I could walk.”
“Mended it?” Gaius traces a finger over the skin. It’s flawless — no scar, no swelling — yet too tight, too pale, the flesh drawn like stretched parchment. “Merlin, this isn’t mending. You’ve fused the tissue together. There’s no give left.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
Merlin looks away, jaw clenched. “I had to. Arthur—”
“Arthur needs you alive, not limping for the rest of your days.”
“I don’t care.” The words come out sharper than he means them to. “I just needed to finish the fight. I couldn’t let him die.”
The silence that follows feels heavier than the pain. Gaius sits back, sighing deeply. “You think being strong means never breaking, but strength has its limits, Merlin. Even for you.”
Merlin swallows. “If Arthur saw— if he knew I’d used magic—”
“He won’t.” Gaius’s voice softens. “But he will notice you’re in pain.”
Merlin’s gaze drops to his leg. “Then I’ll hide it better.”
He does. For years, he does.
He learns to disguise the limp — to walk slowly enough that no one notices the stiffness, to joke about being clumsy when his knee locks at inopportune moments. He uses magic sparingly to numb it when it’s worst, but even that feels wrong now. The joint resists, almost resentful. The spell he cast that day wasn’t clean — it healed him, but it also trapped him, locking the joint in a permanent half-state between injury and repair.
Sometimes, when he bends it too far, he feels a stabbing burst, like a spark running up the bone. The first time it happens, he nearly drops a tray of goblets in the council chamber. Arthur laughs, teasing him about his butterfingers, and Merlin laughs too — a little too loudly, a little too long.
When he’s alone, he grips the edge of the table and breathes through the pain until his vision clear.
And yet, on the quiet nights, the pain returns. It crawls up his thigh and down his calf, a dull, burning ache that no potion soothes. Sometimes, when he uses magic too intensely, the knee seizes entirely, the scarred tissue spasming as if remembering that ancient blow.
He hides it. Always hides it. He’s good at that — better than anyone knows. Arthur’s burden is heavy enough. The last thing Merlin wants is to add to it. What would Arthur think if he saw the truth — that his so-called unbreakable servant is half-crippled by his own doing? He tells himself it doesn’t matter. That the limp isn’t important. That the pain is just another kind of service, a reminder of what he’s chosen to bear.
. 1. The Stairs
Weeks later, it’s morning, and Arthur is already late.
Merlin is later.
Arthur opens his chamber door and looks down the staircase. Merlin’s coming up slowly, tray in hand, careful steps that look like counting. There’s a stiffness there now, quiet but constant.
By the time he reaches the landing, sweat glistens at his temple. Arthur pretends not to notice — just gestures to the breakfast cooling on the tray.
“Next time,” Arthur says lightly, “you might try being on time.”
Merlin grins, breathless but still sharp. “I’ll just move my bed to the hallway, then.”
Arthur smirks, but something about the suggestion lingers. That night, he tells the steward to have a bed prepared in the small antechamber beside his own.
“For convenience,” he explains. “So the idiot doesn’t keep me waiting.”
- The Hunt
The court rides out to hunt. The air smells of pine and morning frost. Arthur checks the saddles before they go — one habit among many he’s never shaken — and notices Merlin adjusting his stirrup too high, favoring one leg.
“You planning to mount sideways?” Arthur teases.
Merlin shrugs. “Horse is uneven.”
Arthur doesn’t argue, only nods toward the road. “We’ll keep to horseback all day. The animals need the exercise anyways.”
It’s a transparent lie — they always take the same trail. But this time, Arthur doesn’t dismount once. He notices how Merlin’s relief hides under a smile. How he stretches his leg out subtly when he thinks no one’s watching.
Arthur watches anyway. And still says nothing.
- At Feast
It’s winter now. The great hall glows with torchlight and laughter. Arthur sits at the high table, his cup untouched, half-listening to knights recounting the battle at Denlow.
Merlin stands behind him, as always — refilling cups, pretending not to limp when he moves. He thinks no one notices how his right leg stiffens after standing too long, how his hand lingers a heartbeat on the back of a chair for balance.
Arthur notices.
When Merlin leans too sharply and nearly stumbles, Arthur catches his arm without turning around, steady and wordless. His fingers stay there longer than they need to.
Merlin whispers, “Thanks,” barely audible.
Arthur lets go. Doesn’t look back.
- The Council
The fourth time, it’s raining. Council runs long, the kind of tedious arguments about trade routes that make even Arthur’s head ache. Merlin sits by the window, copying notes. His face is unreadable.
When the room clears, Arthur lingers. He hears it before he sees it — the sharp, uneven sound of Merlin’s breath. He’s bent slightly, pressing a hand to his knee under the table, face gone pale.
Arthur steps forward. “Merlin?”
Merlin straightens too quickly, smile already fixed. “Just— pins and needles.”
Arthur doesn’t believe it. But the look Merlin gives him — quiet, pleading — stops him cold.
“Go rest,” Arthur says instead.
Merlin nods, grateful and ashamed at once, and limps out.
Arthur watches him go, something heavy twisting under his ribs.
- The Bandits
The fifth time, its just rotten luck. They’re thrown into the cell together — hard, graceless, like sacks of grain. The clang of the iron door rings down the corridor.
Arthur hits the floor first, then Merlin beside him, both already half-bound in rusted cold iron chains that smell of salt and blood. The guards don’t bother tightening them much; they think two half-starved travelers are no threat.
They don’t know who they’ve caught.
The room is narrow, its single window a slit of gray. Rain seeps through the stone and drips into the straw. The chains are bolted to the wall high enough that Arthur can almost sit upright — but Merlin can’t. His wrists are drawn above his head, forcing his body at a crooked angle, one leg folded awkwardly beneath him.
At first, he says nothing. Just breathes shallowly, like he’s keeping the world in balance by sheer will.
Arthur shifts closer, the movement scraping iron against stone. “You all right?”
Merlin laughs softly. “I’m chained to a wall in a dungeon. Perfectly fine.”
But Arthur hears the strain in it — the way his voice trembles near the end. He watches Merlin’s leg twitch, muscles jumping under the tension.
Hours pass. The rain thickens outside. The pain in Arthur’s shoulders is sharp, but he can see Merlin’s is worse — sweat gathers at his temple, his jaw locked tight, eyes distant.
Arthur begins quietly, “Merlin, —”
Merlin flinches. “Don’t.”
“Let me—”
“There’s nothing to do.” Merlin’s voice cracks like brittle wood. “Just— don’t look at me.”
Arthur doesn’t obey. He inches closer, reaching up despite the chains. The links clink softly as he braces Merlin’s arm and shifts him half an inch, enough to change the pull of the shackles. Merlin exhales — not a sigh of relief, but something close.
“That better?” Arthur murmurs.
Merlin nods, eyes closed. The small adjustment eases the pressure, but the damage is already deep; Arthur can see the tremor in his leg, the fine shake that means he’s long past endurance.
“I’ve seen you take a sword to the gut and laugh about it,” Arthur says. “You don’t have to do that now.”
Merlin huffs out a breath — a half-laugh, half-sob. “Force of habit.”
They sit in silence after that, shoulder to shoulder in the damp. Arthur shifts whenever Merlin winces, subtly altering their shared weight until the trembling subsides. The air grows colder, the torch outside guttering low.
At some point, Merlin’s head tips sideways, resting against Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur lets it stay.
By morning, when the guards return to drag them to whatever trial awaits, the first thing Arthur does is pull Merlin gently to his feet. The knee nearly gives out beneath him. Arthur takes his weight without hesitation.
When Merlin mutters, “I’m fine,” Arthur’s answer is quiet and steady: “I know.”
+1 The One Time He Says Something
It’s late. The castle sleeps.
Merlin had come to Arthur’s chamber to drop off reports, some excuse about patrol routes. But now they’re both here, too close, the fire low and warm.
Merlin laughs at something — Arthur doesn’t even remember what — and then the laughter cuts short. He gasps, sharp and involuntary, clutching his leg.
Arthur is on him before thought catches up. “What is it?”
Merlin shakes his head, eyes watering. “It’s nothing, just— my knee— it locks sometimes.”
Arthur doesn’t argue. He knows the lie, knows the shape of it as well as the limp itself.
But knowing and saying are different things. So instead, Arthur kneels — king before servant, as he always seems to be when Merlin’s breaking.
“Let me help,” he says quietly.
Merlin hesitates, every line of him taut with resistance. “It’s fine—”
“Let me,” Arthur repeats, soft but unyielding.
He presses his hand lightly over the knee, feeling the tension shudder beneath. The skin is too smooth — unnatural. Beneath it, the muscle spasms, stubborn and pained.
Arthur moves carefully, slow circles, warmth seeping through the fabric. At first Merlin gasps again — the touch sparks pain so sharp it’s almost unbearable, and his eyes fill with involuntary tears. But Arthur doesn’t stop. He steadies the motion, steady as breath, until the pain gives way to trembling relief.
When the tightness finally eases, Merlin slumps forward, his forehead coming to rest against Arthur’s shoulder. His voice is small, frayed. “It’s not supposed to hurt like this.”
Arthur’s hand stills, his thumb brushing the edge of the scar through the cloth. “Then tell me,” he says, quiet but sure. “Tell me what happened.”
Merlin freezes. The fire pops softly. The sound of rain drumming against the walls fills the silence.
“You already know,” Merlin says at last, voice thin with exhaustion.
“I know you were hurt,” Arthur says. “I don’t know how much it cost you.”
Merlin lifts his head, just enough to meet Arthur’s eyes. They’re steady — not demanding, just open. Waiting.
So Merlin exhales and lets the words come. “It was years ago. During that raid on the western border. One of them hit me with a gavel. Broke it clean through. I—” He swallows. “I didn’t have time to call for Gaius. You were still fighting. I used magic. Tried to heal it.”
Arthur’s eyes soften — not with surprise, not anymore, but with understanding so deep it hurts to see.
“I remember,” he says quietly. “You could barely stand afterward.”
Merlin laughs weakly. “That’s generous. I could barely breathe. I fused it wrong. I didn’t know what I was doing, just that you needed me to stand.” He looks down, ashamed. “It never healed right. Hurts most days. Locks up the rest.”
Arthur nods, as if this confirms something he’s always known. His hand is still on his knee, thumb tracing slow, unconscious circles. “All this time,” he murmurs. “You’ve been walking on that.”
Merlin shrugs. “It was my own stupid fault anyway for messing up the spell. Didn’t want you to worry about it.”
Arthur huffs out something like a laugh, but it sounds too full of ache to be real. “You really thought I hadn’t noticed.”
“No, but you were still kind enough not to say it.”
“I was,” Arthur admits. “But maybe I shouldn’t have been.”
Merlin blinks. “Why?”
Arthur’s hand finds his again, steady and sure. “Because silence isn’t kindness if it lets you suffer alone.”
The words hit like a blow — not cruel, but honest, clean through the armor of Merlin’s composure. His throat closes. “I didn’t want to make you worry.”
Arthur shakes his head. “Too late for that, you idiot. You’ve been limping across my halls for years.”
Merlin almost smiles, tears wet at the corners of his eyes. “You didn’t say anything.”
“I thought you needed me not to,” Arthur says simply. “Until now.”
The rain has softened to a hush. Arthur keeps his hand over Merlin’s knee, gentle pressure grounding him. The pain doesn’t vanish — it never does — but it ebbs, dulled by warmth and understanding.
Merlin lets his eyes close. Arthur’s voice comes again, low, almost fond. “We’ll make it better. One way or another.”
Merlin hums, half-asleep, half-drunk with pain relief. “You always say that.”
“And I always mean it.”
Outside, the storm breaks. Inside, something else mends — not the knee, not the flesh, but the quiet, aching distance that had lived between them.
He never stops limping — not really. But the ache changes. When Arthur walks beside him, matching pace for pace, Merlin no longer hides the drag in his step. It’s there between them — understood, unspoken, no longer shameful.
Arthur never draws attention to it, never names it, but his presence is steady as a hand at Merlin’s back. And Merlin, for the first time, lets himself lean into that steadiness. The path ahead feels less impossible, the weight less lonely.
Some wounds don’t vanish — they settle. And Merlin learns that healing doesn’t always mean being whole; sometimes it simply means not walking alone.