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It catches Merlin’s eye late one night.
Arthur has just returned from a long council meeting—that he attended against Gaius’ orders to rest, the obstinate man—and settled on the edge of his bed. Merlin follows at his heel, closing the doors behind them.
“How’s your arm?” he asks.
“Stop fretting,” the king says, rolling his eyes. “I hardly think I strained it lifting a quill.” He shifts so his back is turned and tugs at his tunic. “Help me take this off, will you?”
Merlin steps up to the bedside. He has just lifted the tunic’s hem when he freezes at the sight of Arthur’s skin.
“Hurry up,” Arthur grumbles, “it’s cold.”
Merlin lets the fabric fall back into place. His pulse has quickened with a quiet panic. “Shall I stoke the fire first?”
“No, just help me change. I’m tired.”
Merlin isn’t ready to confront the sight again, but he can sense Arthur’s impatience in the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head.
“Don’t make me call George,” Arthur says, the warning tinged with humor, but it barely reaches Merlin.
He slowly pulls the tunic up. His breath hitches in his throat. “What is this?” he says in a hoarse whisper.
“What?” Arthur glances over his shoulder, brow quirked.
In the gentlest of touches, Merlin allows his fingertips to graze Arthur’s back.
Arthur stiffens slightly. “Oh,” he says, and the single word is steeped in understanding. A beat lapses. “They’re just battle scars, Merlin.”
But Merlin knows it’s not as simple as that.
Among a handful of old lesions carved by solid metal and mere human strength, several dozens of pale markings cover Arthur’s back. Thin, curved lines streak across his skin like shooting stars. Unlike their dull, uneven counterparts, these appear smooth to the touch, rippling and gleaming in the firelight. Each one is identical to the next—like Arthur has been struck by the same force over and over.
In all this time routinely helping Arthur dress, how has Merlin not noticed these markings?
He draws a trail over the delicate constellation, as though tracing a path to the source of Arthur’s pain. In truth, there’s no need. He knows very well what the source is—because it’s him. Merlin can feel the remnants of magic coursing under Arthur’s skin. Keeping him alive. Marking each moment he nearly died.
“Does it hurt?”
The moment he asks, he’s dreading the answer. Because what if everything he’s done to save Arthur has come around to wound him instead?
Arthur clears his throat. “How soft do you think I am?”
His voice emerges husky. All at once, Merlin notices the reddish hue to his ears, the hair prickling at the back of his neck. Arthur must be uncomfortable with Merlin touching him like this. He snatches his hand away.
Arthur turns. His tunic slips from Merlin’s grasp, and Merlin feels ashamed at the relief that the scars are hidden from view once more.
Arthur is scanning his face. A hint of confusion appears in his eyes. “Of course it doesn’t hurt, you idiot,” he says, though the words hold no bite. “They’re old wounds, long healed.”
But he cannot possibly know the true extent of it. All those times Merlin unthinkingly hauled Arthur around with the force of magic; every time he used it to spur Arthur’s heartbeat to life, to wrench him away from the maw of death… Each has left its lasting mark. If Arthur knew, would he still look at Merlin with eyes so trusting?
Arthur moves so he’s fully facing Merlin. “This is nothing, really. It comes with the territory of being a knight.”
“What, getting injured?” Merlin asks, working to keep his tone light.
“Honoring my duty to my people,” Arthur corrects him. “Protecting those who cannot protect themselves, and those I…” His gaze slips away. “Those I care about.”
“To your own detriment?”
“You would do the same thing,” Arthur says promptly. “You would do everything you could to protect those you love.”
Merlin stills at the words. Perhaps Arthur knows some of the shadowed parts of him, the way he has seen and memorized Arthur’s.
“I would,” he admits, like it’s a failing. Like it’s a sin.
Arthur doesn’t reply. Merlin gets the feeling he’s waiting for more; but he has no more to give.
He sighs and leans over the king. “Here. Let me.”
Arthur lowers his head, allowing Merlin to ease the tunic off. Merlin keeps his eyes averted as the fabric draws over Arthur’s skin. He feels like a coward, washing his hands of what he’s done—yet if he hadn’t made the choices he did, Arthur would not be sitting before him right now.
It seems that no matter what he does, destiny will not allow Arthur to escape wholly unscathed.
His vision grows hazy with tears as he gathers the tunic in his hands. He pulls back to leave—until Arthur catches his arm.
“Don’t tell me you’re crying,” he says, disbelief rendering his voice faint.
“I’m not.” Merlin stands partly turned away, blinking rapidly. “You should rest. Allow your arm to heal.”
Arthur’s hold remains. He gets to his feet, stepping in Merlin’s path. Merlin notes more rough scars scattered across his chest and torso, imagines those strange, unnatural ones taking over his body.
A single tear crosses the brink of his eye. Arthur’s brows furrow.
“Come on, now.” His sets his hands on Merlin’s shoulders, gripping them tight. “You’re being more idiotic than usual.”
Merlin shakes his head, and more tears spill over.
“Merlin.” Arthur gives him a shake. “Stop it.”
Merlin tries to swallow the tears back, but they continue to flood down his cheeks.
“Merlin?” This time, Arthur’s voice carries a hint of desperation. He takes Merlin’s face in his hands, wiping the tears away with his thumbs. “What is wrong with you?” he says, the harshness of the words entirely dampened by undeniable concern.
It makes Merlin feel even worse. He presses his lips together against the building sob in his chest. His shoulders tremble with the effort, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He should have known—he’s been told multiple times—that magic comes at a price. He had simply assumed he would be the one to pay it.
Soft lips brush his forehead.
Merlin’s eyes snap open in surprise. Arthur stands closer than before, still cradling Merlin’s face between his palms. He’s staring so intently that Merlin nearly forgets to draw his next breath.
“Everything’s all right now,” Arthur says. “Don’t cry.”
A final surge of tears dampen Merlin’s cheeks, and he roughly swipes at them. Arthur catches his hand with a click of his tongue. He leans in, and Merlin freezes as Arthur presses a kiss on his cheekbone.
A gentle warmth blooms where Arthur’s skin grazes his. Merlin’s surprise starts to fade, replaced by an ache that’s both familiar and new. Arthur leaves a second kiss on Merlin’s other cheek, dragging his mouth along the trail of his tears, and Merlin finds himself leaning into the touch, lingering in the tenderness he doesn’t deserve.
His lips tremble, parting painstakingly—but there’s nothing he can possibly say to express his remorse.
Arthur’s eyes note the movement before flitting up to meet Merlin’s gaze. Gradually, his hands slide down to the sides of Merlin’s neck, leaving a trail of sparking heat in their wake. He steps close enough for their shortening breaths to intermingle. His thumbs caress lines across Merlin’s jaw before tilting it up—and when he leans in again, it isn’t surprise that keeps Merlin in place, but a quietly growing want.
Arthur’s mouth is damp and salty, tainted with Merlin’s tears. The first presses of their lips are soft but steady, and Merlin finds in them a tether keeping him from crumbling. Desire and sorrow rise within him in twin flames as Arthur’s embraces slowly grow more fervent. The king’s hold tightens, his skin growing warmer, a low groan thrumming at the base of his throat. Merlin pulls him closer, hands running over Arthur’s back like he might be able to erase all traces of the scars through sheer will.
They part abruptly, breathless and completely lost in the moment. Carefully, Arthur reaches back and takes Merlin’s roaming hand in his own. Their fingers weave together. Merlin tightens his grip, burrowing his face in the crook of Arthur’s neck as he works to steady his trembling breath.
“It’s all right,” Arthur repeats in a whisper. “I’m all right.”
Yes—for now, Arthur is all right. Even though he might not be entirely whole, he is alive. Merlin will have to make his peace with that. And when the time comes to turn the force of magic upon Arthur’s frail body once more, he will have to find the strength to do it again, knowing that in the end, there is no other choice.