Battle Scars (Merlin)

Chapter 2

So, here it is, the much awaited second chapter! I can't list all the people who favourited and reviewed, but thank you! There were so many of you, it's lovely! Keep it up, I need more!

He bursts into his chambers, his trembling hands pressed to his wound. Cloth. He needs cloth. He needs to stop the bleeding, clean the wound and bandage it. His fingers shake over the table as the wound in his side forces him to double over in pain. He sits down, quaking, onto the hard wooden bench, gasping for air. It hurts more than any other wound he's had, at least one made by a sword, which is saying something. He knows Arthur didn't mean to, but it doesn't make the pain go away any better. Merlin forces himself to look down, raising the bottom of his shirt, gasping in pain as he peels away the soft fabric from the sticky blood of the gash. It's big, that's the first thing he registers. But it could be all the blood that's flowing out. Stop the bleeding. That's what Gaius always said to do first. Gaius. Where was Gaius? Merlin rubbed his forehead, trying to remember. He hands run over a bump and he pauses. He didn't notice before, he was wearing a helmet. The nearby plate acts as a mirror and a large, reddish lump about the size of a decent egg lies across the right side of his forehead. He probes it gently, wincing. Must have been when he fell over. A knock comes at the door. Merlin stands hastily from the bench, dropping his shirt back down, but then grabs the table, dizzy.

"Merlin? Are you all right?" Gwaine's voice sounds concerned. "It's just, in training, you seemed hurt. We wanted to check you were fine."

Merlin moves around the other side of the table, steadying himself on the polished surface before answering, "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You sure?" That's Percival. Oh, right. Gwaine said 'we'.

"Sure." Even to himself, Merlin sounds weak and the knights aren't letting it slide.

"No, you're not," Leon calls from outside.

"I'm fine!" Merlin snaps. There's silence on the other side of the door.

"Now we know you're definitely not. Normal Merlin would never snap," Gwaine calls through the door. "However, Injured Merlin who doesn't want his friends to get involved would."

"Honestly, Gwaine, I'm fine. Just a little tired." He sounds a little more convincing this time, and Gwaine still doesn't believe him. But he decides to let it go, probably hints from the other knights.

"Well, don't shoot the messenger, but Arthur needs you in half an hour. We're going out to check for any trouble in the woods."

Merlin groans. He hates doing that, and now, in his injured state, it's just going to jolt the wound and make it worse.

"Sorry, mate." He hears their heavy combat boots clomp down the hall and pulls his shirt up again, dipping the clean cloth that lies on the table in water and pressing it gingerly to the wound. The pain is so severe from the contact that he nearly passes out, but grips the table and sits down, his vision fizzling in and out in white-hot squares. It's less than half a minute before he feels the blood soak through to his hand and grabs another cloth, willing it to stop. It stops in the next ten minutes; Merlin's not sure when. He isn't really aware of when he stops feeling the liquid on his hands because they've gone numb. He looks down after a while and sees the seventh cloth he's used is blood-spotted, but no more. Thank God for that. Next step: clean. This was going to be painful. He dips a fresh cloth in warm water and rubs it against the cut. He yells with pain, not any words but just a sound of pain. He breathes deeper, willing himself not to faint. His vision's blurring round the edges, a sure sign that's he going to collapse. He leans forward, and stays there for a few minutes, willing his body to obey his mind. And sure enough, in a few minutes, the nausea recedes. How much longer has he got? Probably only ten minutes. Clean the wound, Merlin. Man up and clean the wound. He brushes the cloth against the ugly slash, biting his lip. Five minutes later and he's touched it maybe six times? But it's enough. He knows if he does it anymore he'll collapse. It's throbbing now, painful, always there, so he bandages it, wrapping the material round his lower torso. He stands up and goes to change his shirt. It's stiff, and annoying. But he'll have to grin and bear it if he doesn't want the others to know.

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