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the-pen-pot · 2 days

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'What happened to your back?' Arthur's voice sounded tense, stiff and uncertain. The brush of warm fingers against the three, pale lines across his shoulder-blade made Merlin jolt in alarm. He whirled around, the tunic still clutched in his hands as he blinked stupidly, his words caught somewhere in his throat. Not that it mattered. Arthur was too busy staring at the starburst scar the size of a grown man's hand that lay right in the centre of his front, over his heart. A frown of confusion melted beneath a mask of horror, and Merlin swallowed hard as all the colour fled Arthur's face. 'What happened to your chest?!'

Arthur finds out about Merlin's scars. Read above on AO3, or keep reading below 👇

It was his own stupid fault, Merlin thought grimly. His usual clumsiness and an unguarded moment was all it took.

He had been helping set up for Uther's latest stupid feast, and he'd slopped red wine all down the front of a blue tunic. In theory, he could have dismissed the stain with a spell, but the smell would have haunted him all evening. Arthur might know that all the time he was apparently in the tavern he was dealing with some magical crisis or other, but the same could not be said for the rest of the court. His reputation was bad enough as it was without adding fuel to that particular fire.

He'd ducked into one of the rooms where they stored the fresh laundry, pulling free a tunic he'd not yet collected before peeling himself free of the clinging fabric. The rustle of cloth meant he didn't hear the creak of the door, and the voice that rang out behind him made him jolt in surprise.

'What happened to your back?'

Arthur's voice sounded tense, stiff and uncertain. The brush of warm fingers against the three, pale lines across his shoulder-blade made Merlin jolt in alarm. He whirled around, the tunic still clutched in his hands as he blinked stupidly, his words caught somewhere in his throat.

Not that it mattered. Arthur was too busy staring at the starburst scar the size of a grown man's hand that lay right in the centre of his front, over his heart. A frown of confusion melted beneath a mask of horror, and Merlin swallowed hard as all the colour fled Arthur's face.

'What happened to your chest?!'

'Er...' Merlin winced, because although he had told Arthur about his magic – about everything he had done in his name, the good and the bad – he had rather glossed over some of the details. He hadn't done any of it for Arthur's gratitude, after all. He didn't need his thanks or his sympathy, but he couldn't deny that some of his choices had left their marks on his body for the world to see.

'Why are you in here?' he managed, hoping to derail the conversation as he hastily tugged on the fresh garment, shoving his arms through the sleeves as he hid the scars from sight. 'Did you need something?'

'I need you to tell me what happened.' Arthur's blue eyes snapped with an aimless, volatile sort of anger. His arms were folded across his chest, making his tunic strain at the shoulders, and the scowl on his brow suggested he wouldn't be easily swayed from his questioning. 'Merlin, who hurt you?'

'It was ages ago. It doesn't matter.'

He went to duck around Arthur, mumbling something about the feast preparations. Yet before he got more than a few paces, strong fingers snagged his wrist. It wasn't a tight grip, Merlin could have broken free with ease, but he still came to heel like a dog obeying its master.

'No, I'm not letting you leave,' he murmured, the rumble of his words sending a bolt of heat arcing down Merlin's spine. It snatched the air from his lungs, leaving him breathless and tense as Arthur turned him back around, shifting his grip to Merlin's shoulders as he stared into his eyes. 'Not until you tell me the truth. Who. Hurt. You?'

The anger in that expression wasn't aimed at him; Merlin knew that well enough. There was nothing Arthur hated more than feeling helpless. He was protective of his knights where Uther was dismissive of their loyalty and their sacrifice, but the gleam in his eye went beyond that. Dread had stolen the warmth from his face, and he was watching Merlin with the kind of intensity that some would find unnerving.

'Sigan and his stupid gargoyles' – He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the scars on his back before tapping one finger over his heart – 'Nimueh and a fireball.' They were such simple words for the horror of stony claws raking his back and the flash and burn of the incendiary spell that had hit him square in the chest, but in the end, they summed it up pretty neatly. 'It's fine, Arthur. They healed.'

He frowned, not understanding the expression on Arthur's face. The knights took injuries for him all the time, and while he praised their courage, he never looked like that – as if someone had reached into his guts and wrenched them out of him, leaving him hollow.

'That's not the point.' Arthur's grasp moved from his shoulders, drifting down his arms to his hands. It was a soothing gesture, one Merlin wasn't even sure was consciously done. Yet even he could feel how Arthur's touch mapped the calluses on his palms and the small scars that were an apprentice healer's mark: tiny burns and the occasional slim white line where the herb-knife had slipped and sliced skin instead. Those didn't cause him any distress, and Merlin realised it was because they were expected: wounds received in the execution of his duties.

Duties which, even knowing about his magic, Arthur clearly didn't realise involved protecting him with as much determination as any one of his knights.

'You've got scars,' Merlin pointed out, thinking of the starburst from the Questing Beast's bite, among others.

'I'm a knight. A prince.' He didn't add "a target"; he didn't have to. They were both thinking it. 'I've been trained to fight since I could walk. You... haven't.'

Merlin snorted. That was an understatement. Still, he could practically see the spin of considerations in Arthur's head, and some magical sense forewarned him that if he didn't speak quickly, he'd find himself on the duelling field being beaten half-to-death in the name of "practice".

'Wielding a sword wouldn't have saved me from either of these, and it's not like I can train in battle-spells, is it?' He shrugged one shoulder, unwilling to disturb Arthur's hand from where it still gripped his, tracing idle, tormenting little patterns against his skin. He didn't think Arthur realised what he was doing: how each caress made Merlin's breath come from deeper in his chest. It made his heart feel like it pumped hot honey, rather than blood, around his veins. 'It's not exactly discreet.'

Arthur pulled as face, but he didn't argue. It had been slow, steady work, getting him to see just how much damage the ban on magic had caused. Arthur would not care for his own sake: he was not interested in doing anything the easy way, but he was beginning to see how his people could suffer from its lack. Now, he looked at Merlin with fresh realisation. 'You can't learn how to defend yourself. Not without risking exposing your magic to all of Camelot.'

It was a flat statement of fact, one that he could not deny. It wasn't just that he could not practice; even studying the theory was a risky endeavour. As long as Uther still sat upon the throne, then Merlin had to work from the shadows and hope that he and Arthur both survived to see better days.

'Armour.' Arthur said it softly. 'I cannot change the laws of Camelot, but there's is nothing to say a servant cannot wear armour. You could enchant it, couldn't you? Extra spells to protect you from magic. You've done it to mine.' One golden eyebrow lifted in challenge, as if daring Merlin to deny it. 'No one will question it. They know you come on almost every patrol with us, and more than one person has remarked upon the fact that you do not wear anything but the tunic on your back. Truthfully, I should have done something about that long before now.'

Merlin pursed his lips. The rumours in court were already rife, and armour would just be another sign of his favour. Already, people noticed how Arthur let Merlin get away with disobedience that bordered on treason, sometimes, and they had taken note.

It was tempting to argue: to say he didn't need it. Armour wouldn't protect him from magical attacks, but he could see the desperation in Arthur's gaze. Those eyes had dipped to the laces of Merlin's tunic, as if envisioning the scar beneath. There was a haunted slant to his expression, as if he were imagining how that day could have ended.

The hand around Merlin's tightened, firm and sure, and when Arthur lifted his eyes once more, he looked resolute. 'I won't see you hurt again,' he said, speaking like a king laying down the law. 'Not if I can help it. One day, it will be different.' He swallowed. 'One day, you will be able to practice your magic without having to hide, but for now, let me help keep you safe. Please?'

Merlin blinked, his heart heaving in a dizzying whirl. Arthur had never spoken of this before. He almost couldn't believe his ears, and he shifted where he stood, one hand reaching out as if he could pin Arthur's words – this very moment – motionless in place.

'Do you mean it?' he rasped, trying to fight the urge to lean forward but unable to stop himself. 'You'll return magic to Camelot?'

'Yes.' Arthur tilted his head to the side, a faint smile curving his lips at whatever he saw in Merlin's face. 'I swear it.'

Beyond the door, the sounds of hurrying servants broke through the heavy air between them. It was enough to send a ripple of awareness through the tiny room – to make Merlin realise how close they stood to each other. All around them the balance of their friendship seemed to wobble, breathless, but it was Merlin, not Arthur, who stepped back in retreat.

'I – I don't know what to say.' A grin spread over his face, bright and unstoppable. 'Thank you!'

And if he hadn't already loved Arthur for more months than he cared to count – hidden and unacknowledged – he would have fallen there and then to see Arthur's bright, boyish grin light up the room.

'You're welcome, Merlin.'

– – –

Buckles chimed as Arthur slid them into place, sheathing Merlin in the armour he had commissioned. It was not the glittering mail and stalwart plate of his knights, but soft leather with scale pressed between: light and flexible, but strong enough to shield Merlin from the worst the world had to offer.

He wet his lips, looking up at him under his lashes as his pulse thrummed helplessly. The promise he had made still echoed in his mind. No doubt accompanied it; he would not go back on his word. Not after he'd seen the vicious light of hope lend its glow to Merlin's features.

Besides, magic was not the only thing he planned to change when he took the throne. He could not admit how he felt for Merlin now, not while his father still lived and all the expectations of the court were against them. He would not make Merlin suffer that.

Instead, he did what he could to protect the man who had stolen his heart. He would keep him safe in whatever way he could, and one day, he would be free to claim the love that Merlin promised him with every glance.

They would have their golden age, together. Arthur would make sure of it.

#Merlin #Merthur #My Fanfiction

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