Chapter Text
It's not that he doesn’t want to tell Arthur the truth about his magic. In fact, once upon a time, he had thought it would come easily.
The day King Arthur had legalized magic, Merlin had sworn to himself that he’d tell him the truth the next day, but the next day came and went. And the next. As months pass, Merlin becomes less sure that he will ever actually work up the nerve.
The mood has to be right. It has to be one of those nights when it’s just the two of them, maybe a little drunk and too close, to remind Arthur that Merlin is his friend. Those nights don’t happen quite as often anymore. Arthur is always busy with a thousand things now that he is the King. When they do spend time together, it’s usually under the guise of doing work, but they’ll still have moments, opportunities when it would be perfect to speak up, and Merlin will nearly work up the courage, only to lose it all when Arthur looks at him with complete trust in his eyes.
It seems foolish to hide his secret when it has been legal for nearly a year, but having magic is hardly the worst thing Merlin has kept from Arthur. There are things he's done that hes never told a soul, unforgivable things that have left his body and soul scarred, and he's never spoken a word of them to Arthur. To anyone.
He isn’t ready to talk about it. If he mentions the magic, Arthur will have questions. Merlins answers would only destroy Arthur's view of him. He isn't sure he could discuss it at all after so many years of burying it all down into an ever growing mass of grief.
Long ago, he thought there would come a day that he could tell Arthur everything, and the strength of their bond would ensure Arthurs forgiveness. He promised himself he would only use his magic for good, never for harm.
He was younger then. Naive to what acts he would eventually commit in the name of destiny. That was before he had killed for the first time, or the second, or the tenth. Before he could no longer count the number of executions he had witnessed, before he failed over and over again to protect anyone, learned to cover his hideous scars under long sleeves to hide the evidence, learned to lie to Arthur as easily as breathing. Before he discovered just how far he would go to keep Arthur safe, even if it meant sacrificing every moral he thought he had.
He isn't sorry about the magic, but the betrayal would be too much. So many people have betrayed Arthur's trust already that it's hardly fair for Merlin to add to the list.
Selfishly, he doesn't ever want to have to look into Arthur's eyes and see that trust gone.
He has to tell him someday. Eventually.
‘Eventually’ becomes further and further away. If Merlin is honest with himself, he would take these secrets to his grave if he had the choice.
-
The choice is taken from him.
They’re at the border investigating rumors--well, more like solid evidence--of a Lord violating treaty agreements. Fairly boring as far as these things go, and definitely not enough to warrant the King himself visiting, but he’s pretty sure that’s why Arthur had decided to come in the first place. He’s been under a lot of pressure lately, and the whole affair is a perfect excuse for some pleasant hours of riding on the way to their destination.
Now that they’re actually at their destination, the day is rapidly becoming less pleasant.
It’s a beautiful estate, Merlin notes as he dismounts his horse, boots squelching in the mud. They won’t spend long here. He hopes not, anyway; it’s looking like rain. The Lord finally rides up to greet them. At least the man is decent enough to meet them outside. That'll make it quick.
“Your Majesty,” Gaillard bows. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“I have several accounts detailing your mistreatment of land, mistreatment of servants in your care, and misuse of magic,” Arthur says.
Lord Gaillard smiles thinly. “I haven't the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
Arthur meets Merlins eye for a moment, both of them wearing matching unimpressed looks.
Arthur shakes his head. Merlin holds out a hand to indicate that the rain is going to start soon, and tilts his head back in the direction of the castle. Arthur sighs and looks at the horses, then back at Merlin, in silent conversation. He plucks a stray piece of grass from Merlins hair, barely stifling a grin. They’d taken a detour through a field earlier which had resulted in a bout of wrestling in the grass and-
Lord Gaillard clears his throat and they both jump back. “Majesty?”
”Yes. Right. If you truly have no recollection of your crimes, we can discuss it at the castle. Come along.”
Arthur smirks, condescending. He’s riling the man up. Merlin has been to enough of these things that he can practically see what Arthur is thinking, trying to fluster him into a confession. Arthur thinks that since Lord Gaillard is a small, portly man, if he puts up resistance they can easily take him.
However, Merlin has also been to enough of these things that he is aware of the reality of the situation. This is a sorcerer, and he’s been committing magical crimes alongside his other, pettier ones. Making him angry before they’ve got iron shackles on him will only cause problems and as always, it will be up to Merlin to fix it. Sometimes it feels like he's single handedly keeping Arthur alive.
Lord Gaillard doesn’t take Arthur’s bait. “No need. We can settle this here, outside of court, sire. I’ll hand over the rights to the land. I relinquish them to you.”
He holds out the papers with a flourish. Arthur steps forward to take the papers, but Merlin stops him with a hand. It’s never this easy. They’d given him advance notice that they were coming, but settling immediately without argument, outside at the edge of his estate where there are no witnesses? He’s up to something.
Merlin steps forward himself and snatches the papers, magic buzzing as it encounters something foreign. He tucks them under his arm, against his side. It itches. So he was right, Gaillard enchanted them somehow.
The triumph of being right doesn’t last long. The itching sensation turns to a stabbing pain, and he drops the papers. Pain shoots through his side and he tries his best to make no sound, because Arthur is watching. Taking deep breaths, he steadies himself and readies to strike. He’s felt pain worse than this many times, the ringing in his head and the burning sensation familiar. The only difference now is that Arthur is right there, in plain view of what’s happening. Merlin clutches his side and steps backward. No way is he letting Arthur find out over something so stupid.
But Lord Gaillard moves his hand toward Arthur and there is no time to worry about being seen, no time for thought as light burns behind his eyes.
-
“Merlin, he’s-” before he can finish, Merlin has already struck, so fast Arthur doesn’t even see it happening before Gaillard lies twitching on the ground, surrounded by smoldering ash.
Merlin glances back, breathing heavily but with a face so nonchalant that Arthur wouldn't believe he had just scorched a man if it hadn’t happened in front of his own eyes. Blood gushes from his side like he’s been stabbed. Arthur stares, and Merlin pales, backing away.
“That wasn't what it looked like."
Arthur raises his brows, dazed and unbelieving. He'd had his suspicions, but this is not what he had expected.
Merlin shifts and tries again. "He wasn’t going to honor the contract, I had to do it,” he says. He’s still backing away. “I had to.”
The look on his face snaps Arthur back to reality. “What? I don’t-- Are you alright?” He steps forward to steady Merlin, who looks like he’s going to fall over at any moment. He sits him on the ground and tears his shirt to press against the wound.
Merlin hisses. “Fine. The- er, magic," his voice goes low as he says it, as if hes worried someone will hear out here in the middle of a wet field, "will take care of it in no time.”
“Yes. That.” He’s not sure how to tactfully bring up the obvious fact that Merlin has magic. Unlike his official speeches, there is no preparation or script for this interaction. He’s not even sure he wants to bring it up until they’ve made it home and he’s had this wound looked at properly. He’s not going to remove pressure long enough to take a good look at the wound, all he can do is staunch the bleeding and pray it’s not life threatening. It’s concerning how unreactive Merlin has been; Arthur can’t remember many times he’s been hurt this badly and he should really be screaming right now. The lack of panic may mean he’s in shock. Suffice it to say, magic is the last thing on his mind right now.
It seems Merlin has other ideas, because he immediately launches into what is clearly a rehearsed speech fumbled by blood loss. “I’m sorry,” he says. "I have magic, and I use it to protect you and fight your battles, and I'm not sorry about that part, but. Anyway. Er. It all started when the great dragon- That is to say, Kilgarrah- I- I don't know where to start," he trails off, staring into space. He's bleeding rather a lot.
Gaillard drags himself away, escaping. Arthur turns, and hesitates, but does not go after him. The red soaking Merlin's shirt seems to consume him entirely.
"You're not making sense," says Arthur.
"Sorry," he says again. "It's a lot to explain. I know it’s no excuse but it was all for you. I know you want a better explanation, and I'll try to give you one. I swear I will, and I'm still useful! Just need... a little while to get myself together.”
He honestly still isn’t sure what Merlin is trying to say, but he has tears in his eyes for gods sake, looking at Arthur pleadingly like he thinks he's angry with him, and has Arthur mentioned he’s bleeding? Yes, he’s giving Arthur the shock of his life, but how is he supposed to be angry?
“Hush. Save your strength.”
“Told you, it’s fine,” he bats Arthur’s hand away from the wound and holds pressure himself, stubbornly mounting his horse alone.
He’s still wearing that calm expression like this happens every Tuesday. Arthur frowns, unsure. But Merlin seems certain it will be alright, already sitting in the saddle for the ride back, and Arthur trusts him to know what he’s doing. He shrugs and mounts his own horse. They’ll ride back and talk more later.
Surely all will be well.
-
Arthur is strange on the way back. He keeps checking up on Merlin, which is very sweet of him even though Merlin is fine, but which is also... unusual. Arthur isn’t often so careful with Merlin; many times he’s been injured and Arthur has slapped him on the shoulder and told him to get on with it. Not that Merlin minds, except that the gentleness feels like a consolation prize for the eventual inevitable screaming match about how Merlin is a traitor. Which leads him to the most interesting thing of all- Arthur hasn’t once brought up the magic.
Merlin hates stewing in it.
When they get back, Arthur brings him to Gaius, but he’s able to weasel his way out with promises to keep the wound clean himself. As soon as he’s free, he goes immediately to Arthurs chambers.
Arthur sits at his desk. Merlin wastes no time.
“So. I have magic,” he says.
“Yes.” Arthur stops and says nothing more.
He crosses his arms defiantly, waiting on Arthur’s response even as his heart thumps hard in his chest. He’s imagined it many times, Arthur hating him for his years of lies, never forgiving him, or worse.
Moments go by, the two of them in silence. Arthur sighs.
"I know, Merlin, I saw.” He doesn't even sound angry, just… tired. "We can discuss it later, alright? Now go rest, I have to read this treatise before tomorrow." He waits a moment, but Arthur has already put his head down to read parchment, as if this conversation had been just another task in his busy day. As if it all meant nothing at all that Merlin had lied to him all along, and he doesn't care enough to ask questions or be angry, or even react.
Somehow, it’s worse. At least if he had reacted negatively, Merlin could relax knowing it was finally over. This feels unreal. Foreboding, like a calm before a storm.
He blinks and the room is dark. The fire has gone out. He turns and leaves the way he came.
-
Arthur sits heavily on the edge of his bed, looking over treaties but hardly seeing them, too lost in thought at the events of the day.
Out of practically nowhere, Merlin had confessed to having magic. It’s not as if it’s a problem anymore, Arthur had repealed the ban over a year ago, and figured out that Merlin had it even before that, but he hadn’t thought Merlin would ever actually confess.
When he had first begun to suspect, he was angry beyond belief. But he had soon reasoned that Merlin would never harm anyone with it. The man probably used his magic for something stupid like washing clothes faster, or cutting down on armor polishing time. Its Merlin, after all. This theory was confirmed the first time he saw him using it to light a fire.
And then there was today.
Merlin had scorched a man and knocked him flat on his back in under a second. Perhaps even stranger was the fact that he’d acted so nonchalant afterward, like he had done it a million times.
In a way, knowing Merlin’s power is greater than he thought had come as a relief. Arthur often finds himself worrying about the idiot, but if he is capable of combat, he can train and use his magic to make sure he stays safe, and Arthur won’t have to worry any longer.
-
Things go on as normal. Merlin serves him during the day, and Arthur asks him questions about what his magic and gets vague answers, to his growing frustration. He still gets his opinions on policy, and the two of them have writing practice on odd evenings, which devolves into complete stupidity as they pass notes back and forth. He attends meetings and events, and the two of them make eye contact and try not to laugh as nobles peacock about in their ridiculous outfits trying to get Arthur's attention. Little do they know, his attention is quite taken.
Leaving the latest meeting, Merlin shivers in the chill of the summer evening. Camelots nights tend to be chilly even this time of year. Arthur goes to take off his coat to drape over him, but pauses, remembering that they are in the company of nobles who might think it odd for a King to drape his servant in fineries. Instead, he slaps Merlin’s shoulder gently, ushering him down the hallway toward his rooms.
"Let’s have a fire tonight," he says, rubbing Merlins back.
Arthur makes a mental note to have more warm clothing made for him. He had commissioned Merlin some boots last winter and the idiot had been so odd about accepting them that he had to make up a lie about them being hand-me-downs. It’s utterly ridiculous, sometimes, being his friend.
They sit in Arthurs chambers and Merlin kindles a fire. He keeps glancing nervously at Arthur like he’s going to suddenly realize he’s doing magic and reprimand him. Arthur thought they were over this already; avoiding a confrontation about it had seemed the wisest idea before, but Merlin continues to be hesitant and strange.
He sighs and Merlin glances at him again. The fire crackles pleasantly. It will last for hours, as Merlin’s fires always do. He had always thought it was a knack, but now it is still is a knack, but in a different way. He passes Merlin a cup of mulled wine and he smiles, reaching out to take it.
Arthur knows everything will be fine between them, in time.
-
No one brings his breakfast. It’s half past eleven when Arthur finally gives up on waiting and goes to find his late manservant himself.
“Where is the idiot,” Arthur mutters to himself as he strides toward Gaius’ chambers. It’s not like Merlin to be so late.
Bursting through the door of his room, he calls out, “Merlin, you were supposed to… be...” he trails off as he catches sight of Merlin, who stands in the corner, rewrapping bandages over his stomach.
Merlin turns and smiles at him. “Oh, hello Arthur. I’ll bring your breakfast shortly, I couldn’t find the bandages for the longest time this morning, turned out they were under the bed. I must have put them there when I was putting away my, er.” he flushes red. “-my pillows,” he finishes lamely, and then jumps into a meandering ramble about what’s on Arthurs schedule for the day.
He keeps talking, crossing the room to grab his neckerchief. Arthur hardly registers the words, too busy staring at Merlin's torso, covered in all manner of scars. Some fresh, some older, as if they’d been there a number of years. Merlin opens a foul smelling jar of some kind of poultice, and spreads it over a jagged red scar that can’t be more than a few months healed.
The bandage on his most recent wound is already showing red. When he had said the wound would heal by magic, Arthur had assumed it would be instantaneous, or somehow less painful, but all his assumptions are blown away as Merlin continues dressing, flinching as he bends to pick up his shirt from the floor. The movement pulls the scars on his back and Arthur stares.
He realizes he hasn’t said anything in response, or heard anything Merlin has said. Merlin is looking at him oddly.
Arthur opens his mouth. “Take the day off,” he says.
“You're so impatient. I just told you I’ll be ready in a second,” Merlin says, irritation lacing his tone.
“I can’t believe I’m having to convince you to take time off when you’ve been magically stabbed!”
Merlin has the audacity to throw up his arms like Arthur is the one being unreasonable. “Only barely! And it will heal, it always does.”
“What do you mean, it always does? How often-” It’s a stupid question, it’s obvious from the state of his scarred skin that this is not an unusual occurrence. Questions flurry in his head, but he doesn’t even know where to start. “Where did you get all these?”
“From fights, and things. Protecting you. I told you that,” he says slowly, like he’s talking to a child. "You know all those times you've passed out during a fight and I told you that you defeated the beast? You know it’s impossible to come out of fights like those unscathed."
Arthur gapes at him. He hadn't thought it was anything like this. Even seasoned knights don't get scars like these, and they are given months of time off to recover from their worst injuries. Merlin has never taken more than a few days off at a time.
“You-- you let me assign you chores like usual.” Arthurs stomach churns like he’s going to be sick, but he keeps it together.
“It’s my duty to protect you no matter what,” he says. “No big deal, I can still function. Well, besides little things. My wrist clicks now, and sometimes my shoulder hurts something fierce... Oh, and sometimes when you talk to me on the left side I, er, can’t actually hear you. I got hit on the head and- story for another time. Nothing too major, luckily. Well, besides… ” he mutters something under his breath and trails off.
Arthur composes himself, and attempts to rally his most essential questions to the front. Why would Merlin do this? How long has this been going on? The most critical sentiment makes itself known. “You have to stop. I’m officially ordering you.”
For some reason, that of all things makes Merlin's face fall. "No, no, no, look, it’s really nothing. I shouldn’t have said anything. Please, let me keep working, it’s the least I can do.”
Arthur has lost the entire thread of this conversation. “You've done more than enough.” And his bandage is bled entirely through. “I’ll fetch Gaius. Off to bed with you, and I’d better not see you for the rest of the day.”
-
Merlin, ever stubborn, brings his dinner five hours later.
Arthur ignores him in hopes that he will get the message and go rest. He has much to ponder. Perhaps he had been hasty in thinking Merlin should train with his magic, tacking on further duties for him to fulfill. It is becoming increasingly obvious that Merlin would work himself to death given the chance, and that he very nearly has already.
He's realizing that he knows even less about this situation than he thought, and the reality of it is far more disturbing than he could have imagined. Part of him knows it isn't his fault, he couldn't have possibly known, and part of him knows he has failed his friend on a fundamental level for years. Perhaps even the entire time they've known each other.
When he looks up, Merlin is still stood in the corner, waiting. Suspiciously silent, not like his usual chatter that fills the space.
“What are you doing here?”
“Tonight is writing practice.”
He’s right. Wednesdays are the nights that Arthur teaches Merlin to read and write. It had started as a genuine practice, but as time went on and Merlin became proficient, the time had become more of an hour long note passing gossip session.
He isn’t sure he’s up for it tonight.
Arthur pushes out his chair and faces Merlin, making eye contact for the first time. He is tired of deflections. “I want you to tell me everything.”
“I have," he says. Damn him, it doesn't sound like a lie, even though they both know it isn't true. He's gotten too good at hiding from Arthur, and Arthur cant even be angry because he understands exactly why Merlin needed to hide for so long. He just never thought he would hide so much.
“I believe some aspects were glossed over.” Like the part where you have a massive burn on your chest and a gouge in your stomach, and-
"I want to," he blurts. "I will, I swear, but I'm not- I don't want things to change between us."
"Never."
Merlin swallows and his eyes flicker to the door, then the window, as if mapping an escape route. Arthur deflates. Merlin had said he wasn’t ready to discuss all of it yet, and it wouldn’t be right to push with something so obviously painful for him.
“Is it hasty to bring it up? I apologize.”
“It’s not hasty when it’s so many years coming. I’ll- What if I wrote it down? Would that be alright? It’s writing practice night, so...” his voice is panicked. "I'll tell you anything you want to know, just please, please don’t-"
The silence is thick. Arthur swallows. The fear is tangible, and in this moment he is his father, standing over some cowering innocent who fears death.
"Don’t what?" he says softly, and prays his voice holds no judgement.
"Don’t hate me," Merlin’s voice cracks and his eyes glisten. His hands twitch and Arthur knows him, knows that when his hands move just like that he wants contact, because they are best friends and because Arthur loves him more than all else, and his name together with hate is oxymoronic.
Arthur opens his arms for a hug, and Merlin comes to him immediately.
“I don’t,” Arthur says, muffled against his ear. He is normally more eloquent than this. He shakes his head, frustrated. Arthur needs to end this conversation before he puts his foot in his mouth more than he already has.
"Yet," says Merlin, so quietly it could have been his imagination.
Merlin steps back far too soon, already composed again. This worries Arthur more than anything else. Merlin had worn his heart on his sleeve, once.
"Are you really okay to work?" Arthur asks. He already knows the answer. Merlin gives one of his little grins.
"For you, I always am. No matter what." It’s not the reassurance Merlin might think it is. Merlin sways so slightly that Arthur might not have even noticed had he not been looking, his white knuckled hand gripping the bedpost for stability even as his face displays that same casual impassivity, and does he really know Merlin at all?
Arthur wonders how many times he’s had to school his face and hold onto furniture to get through the day. How long did it take him to perfect that calm facade, to stand up straight even as he slowly bleeds through bandages under his clothing?
Arthur sighs. “Alright. Leave me be, and get some rest. I’m serious."
Merlin rolls his eyes and collects the dishes from dinner, carrying them on his right side and keeping his other hand pressed to his stomach as he leaves. The door swings shut, the only sound in the heavy silence of the room.
Arthur runs a hand down his face. God. All the scars on his body, the way he talks about being wounded as if it’s nothing, like his health and his life mean nothing at all. And Arthur had never noticed. He can’t believe he’s been so careless. He had thought it was the two of them fighting together, for one another, but now he sees how much Merlin has sacrificed. Arthur doesn’t have nearly that volume of scars, far less gained from protecting Merlin. Shame prickles up his neck, remembering all the times over the years that he had noticed Merlin looking worn, or tired, or empty, and had chalked it up to mere fatigue, even joked with him about it. Roughhoused.
”It will heal, it always does.”
How could he not notice his best friend throwing his life away for him? How could he not notice how far Merlin has had to go? And he has given him so comparatively little in return, never even realizing he was in pain. It's obvious that he doesn't value himself the way Arthur does. Guilt and fear after seeing violence are concepts he is familiar with, present in many of his knights. He is at a loss for how to help, because he doesn't even know the half of what happened, much less how Merlin feels, and if Merlin isn't ready to talk about it then there's nothing he can do.
No, he won’t let it continue. He has to find a way to do something, somehow. Even if Merlin won't talk to him. Merlin absolutely cannot continue to overwork and sacrifice himself. He can simply assign Merlin's tasks to other people, if that’s what it takes. Merlin has done more than enough already. He can laze around in comfortable retirement for the rest of his life, if it will keep him out of danger. It’s about time they had some peace, after everything that’s happened. If there’s anyone that deserves rest, it’s Merlin.
He’ll probably appreciate it. After all, he’s constantly complaining about chores. Time off will do him good.