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Monsters hide in the shadows, in the gloom where no one is looking, pace the hallways where the torches have gone out. Their teeth flash and claws glisten and eyes spark in the light: no one likes a monster in plain sight.
Merlin has always been most at home in the shadows, most at ease creeping through the night, always feeling just a little too exposed in the sunlight. And he has always been right to: no one wants to see a monster.
And that is all he was born, all he is, and all he will ever be.
For all his mother’s reassurances and Gaius’s reprimands, he knows it to be true. Nothing human can twist the world like he can. Nothing good can wrench lightning from the sky and wrap it around a heart to stop it from beating. Merlin knows, he knows, he knows, that he was damned from the first time he opened his eyes and they were gold instead of blue.
He doesn’t know why his mother kept him, a bastard and demon both, but he does know that eventually, even she tired of him, and sent him to Camelot. It was a death sentence as soon as he crossed the border, because Camelot was above using monsters for labor. Cenred didn’t care, dragging monsters by in chains, making them all the more monstrous.
The first time Gaius tells him he’s not a monster, he almost believes him. Then he brings a chandelier down on a grieving mother, and becomes a murderer as well as a monster. He slips far too easily, far too comfortably, into the mantle of a killer, and at night, the blood seems to stain his hands like shadows, and ghosts watch him with hatred in their eyes.
But he doesn’t stop.
He can’t really, because every person he’s killed is for Arthur, and what a monstrous thing that is, to put one man’s life above so many, to believe so many deaths to be worth one life, but he’ll do it anyway. Monsters love savagely, with teeth and claws, ripping out their hearts to give away so they won’t hurt anymore. Merlin is no exception, and he handed his own heart, bloody and twisted, to Arthur long ago. He doesn’t want it back, and knows that his chest will be hollow and aching forevermore, because no one will ever love a monster.
Arthur doesn’t know that he holds Merlin’s heart, fragile as it is, and Merlin hopes to keep it that way. Merlin will love Arthur as long as he lives, but it is just as much of a curse to be loved by a monster as it is to love one.
Arthur is the light, and Merlin follows in the shadows. Arthur is all things good and human and wonderful, and Merlin is the other side of the coin, the dark side of the moon, the twisted things that hide in the dark. He smiles with sharp teeth and snatches arrows out of the air, drinks the poison meant for Arthur and coughs it up, stitches his skin back together when he’s not fast enough. He walks through the night, always with blood staining his hands, calling death down from the sky. If he’s damned already, he may as well be useful. After all, there’s only so long until he’s the one with a blade in his heart, with an axe in his throat, tied to the pyre. There’s only so long until Arthur sees him as he truly is, and hates him for it.
But for now, he can hide. He can pull his face into a smile, hide his scars under his clothing, scrub at his hands until the blood disappears, fight to keep his eyes blue, blue, blue. He can look human, and act human, but he is not and never truly will be. He’s good at pretending, and that makes it all the harder when Arthur finally does find out.
It’s commonplace enough when it does happen, just another skirmish with nameless bandits in the forest. It’s a thing he’s done a hundred times, twisting the air around an arrow and sending it back into the archer’s neck: neither a threat to Arthur anymore. Simple though it is, his eyes flash gold, and the magic pushes against his veins, and as it swirls back to settling in his blood, he sees Arthur’s gaze fixed on him, betrayed and broken and terrified. Fitting, that the first of Merlin’s magic that Arthur ever sees is used to kill.
The battle peters out and the knights slowly regroup. They all make their way to a nearby clearing, and immediately set about preparing camp for the night. Arthur’s eyes stay trained on Merlin, and Merlin can hear his footsteps behind him when goes to gather wood.
He’s gathered a whole bundle of branches before Arthur speaks.
“How long?”
Merlin sighs, breath pluming white in the air. Winter is on its way, cold that calls to the cold things in his heart. “What do you mean?”
He doesn’t turn to look at Arthur, doesn’t need to. He knows what Arthur looks like when he spots a beast in the forest, has watched him drive his sword through enough twisted hearts. He knows that his fate will be splattered across the forest floor, painting the dead leaves red, that soon enough the sword that he gave to Arthur will be buried to the hilt in his own chest. But Arthur stays silent, and Merlin is weak enough that he turns to look. Arthur’s eyes are sad, more than anything, and Merlin recognizes the grief in them: missing humanity. He’s spent enough nights mired in his own loss.
Their eyes meet, and Arthur is the first to look away. “If you’ve learned it,” he says quietly. “You can unlearn it. By my father’s laws, I should kill you now. But I won’t. You just have to promise—” Promise not to be a monster. He coughs. “Promise that you won’t use it.”
His eyes are wide and bright and blue and everything human and whole that is missing from Merlin. Merlin’s powerless against that gaze, so he nods.
“Okay,” he says. He’s never tried to be anything but a monster, but for Arthur…Well, if he clung to monstrousness for Arthur, he can push it down, down, down. He can bury the evil so deep in his soul that maybe, just maybe, Arthur will look at him and see something worth caring for.
It’s a selfish thought, but Merlin’s a selfish creature, and he clings to it.
That night, as he lights the fire, magic pushes up against his skin, begging to send the spark into the kindling, but he pushes it down, swallows it back, and strikes the flint until the smoke rises and the twigs crackle, painting the whole camp with flickering light.
He wakes early the next morning and finds Arthur watching him. There’s something odd in his eyes, something that’s almost fear. He shrinks back, fixing his scarf and rubbing a hand over his eyes. His hands are shaking, magic begging a release, but he curls his fingers into fists, sets his jaw, and rises.
There’s an ache in his knuckles by the end of the day, but he doesn’t think much of it. He’s a servant, after all, and his hands hurt often enough.
When they return to Camelot, Gaius asks Merlin to heat water so he can brew his draughts. Before, he would use magic, just a flash of the eyes and the water would bubble in its clay pot. Now he builds the fire up and carefully settles the pot in the coals. Gaius watches him with raised eyebrows, but says nothing.
After a week, the ache from his hands has spread and settled until it lives in his bones. It hurts to move, but he hasn’t used magic in a week, hasn’t given in, and maybe, just maybe, he’s got a chance.
Arthur watches him more closely now, eyes appraising, and he sometimes claps Merlin on the shoulder.
“You’ve done well,” he says, and Merlin wants to drown in the smile that he’s offered. “But you were always one to keep your promises.”
When Arthur smiles, when he tells Merlin he’s done well, when his eyes don’t condemn and sweep and flash monster, Merlin can almost forget the pain that makes him limp up the stairs to Gaius’s chambers each night.
The magic gets angrier after the second week, bubbling in Merlin’s veins, pushing up against his skin. He’s not hungry, most of the time, but he still forces down food when Gaius is watching. Arthur starts leaving a plate out for him, too, and he picks at that sometimes. Sometimes he’s nauseous for hours and anything that his swallows comes right back up again.
He avoids Gwen and Lancelot and Gwaine, everyone but Arthur, really—he can see them again once he’s overcome the magic. They deserve that, at least, to have a friend who’s not just pretending that he’s not a monster.
He gets a fever halfway through the third week, the magic too close to the surface, and his bones hurt more than anything. Arthur’s stopped telling him that he’s done well, instead spending hours in the library, poring over old texts. More than once, Merlin’s come into Gaius’s chambers to find Arthur on his way out, lips pursed and a crease between his brows.
The pain gets worse every day, until he can barely stand. He staggers against the walls of the corridors, can’t eat without the food turning his stomach, and has started to taste blood at the back of his throat. He’s not sure if it’s the weakness or the pain, the fact that he’s not using magic anymore or that he’s not strong enough to do much of anything, but he’s the furthest from monstrous that he’s ever been, so he pushes on and on and on.
It’s been a month and a half full since Arthur saw him in the woods, a month and a half since his veins sang with magic and his eyes sparked gold. He sleeps fitfully now, never for longer than an hour or two at a time. His bones rattle, buzzing, and his vision is blurred with tears more often than not. It all hurts, hurts and hurts and hurts, but if it means he’s not a monster anymore…
There is, as ever, danger in the fabric of the shadows, poison and blades, and it’s only a matter of time before Merlin is hunting again. He sticks to the shadows, but his eyes aren’t as sharp anymore. He can’t hear footsteps almost before they hit the ground, his limbs are bogged down with pain. Still, he can stalk quietly, he can follow, and he can fight.
The thing is, he never really got very good at fighting, always able to pull magic from his fingertips, to save himself with a flash of his eyes. So when the man with the knife fights back, Merlin finds himself up against the wall outside of Arthur’s chambers. There’s a knife at his throat, and he scrabbles for the magic that still lines his veins.
But after a month and a half of disuse, it shrinks ever inward, pain radiating through his chest, and he barely has time to flinch, barely moves enough that the dagger plunges into his shoulder and not his neck. It doesn’t hurt as much as the magic roiling through his ribcage, and he pulls the knife out with a hiss. In seconds, it’s buried in the would-be assassin’s throat. Then the man is dead, and Merlin’s covered in blood again, and it crashes down suddenly: the crushing weight that even through he’s tried so hard, he’s pushed it back so far, the magic was still the first thing that he reached for; his first instinct is and always will be monstrousness. His hands will always be slick with blood.
He sobs the whole night through, blood clotting on his wounded shoulder. He can feel the magic buzzing through his limbs, too hot, and it makes his heart hurt, and when he lays back, it’s like he’s burning. Monsters, after all, always end up on the pyre.
But morning dawns, bright and clear and cold, and with it the first snow. Merlin pulls himself out of bed, discards his bloodied tunic, and wraps his shoulder in a bandage. It needs stitches, but that can wait.
That day is a bad day: everything hurts, hurts enough that moving sends new pains shooting through his bones and curling through his chest. His shoulder aches and bleeds. His stomach roils, and he can’t even keep water down.
But such is the cost of being born a monster, and such is the hope of being anything else.
Arthur doesn’t smile much around Merlin anymore, and hasn’t told him that he’s done well in weeks. He sinks further and further into the shadows, and the magic that bubbles through his veins grows hotter with every passing day. Sometimes it’s devastating, so fire-bright that he can almost see it through the thin skin over his wrists; sometimes he can shove the pain into the background.
He’s in Arthur’s room when it happens, when he finally slips and falls and can’t get up because his limbs hurt too much. He just lays there on the floor, staring at the ceiling, and lets his eyes slip closed, because he’s just so tired.
The next thing he’s conscious of is someone pulling him up to sitting.
“Merlin,” says Arthur from beside him. “You’ve got quite a fever.”
Merlin slumps, miserable, against him. He feels as if his veins are made of acid, something trying to eat away at the walls of him until he ceases to exist. He looks at his hand, and it’s shaking. And Arthur is here, Arthur is holding him, and Merlin doesn’t have the strength to protect him from this particular monster anymore.
Arthur clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “You know, you can ask for days off when you’re sick,” he says.
“M’not sick,” mutters Merlin. “Not really.”
“Merlin, you passed out in the middle of my chambers. Clearly, something’s wrong—”
“I’m trying,” chokes Merlin. “Arthur, I’m trying. For you.”
“What?”
He manages to tilt his head back long enough to look up at Arthur. “I don’t want to be a monster anymore,” he says, and darkness creeps in at the edges of his vision.
“Merlin,” says Arthur. “Merlin!”
Merlin lets his eyes slide closed, and the world finally grows quiet around him.
When he wakes, it’s to the familiar smell of herbs and woodsmoke, Gaius standing over him and Arthur sitting beside the patient cot, brow creased with concern. He’s holding a damp cloth, which he keeps pressing over Merlin’s forehead. He smiles at Merlin when his eyes flicker open, and for a moment, Merlin’s heart doesn’t hurt.
“How are you feeling?”
Merlin shrugs. The fire in his veins has dulled, and he can move now. He starts to sit up, but Arthur catches his shoulders and gently pushes him back down.
“You have a high fever,” he says. “You—you need rest, more than anything.”
Merlin huffs out a sigh and slumps back. Gaius feels his forehead, and crosses to his bench, gathering a handful of florets and berries, setting them in a bowl.
“How long have you been feeling ill?” he asks, as he crushes the berries. He scrapes the whole mess into a square of cheesecloth and ties it, setting it in a cup and putting the kettle on the fire.
“Not long,” lies Merlin. “Maybe it’s just something going around the lower town.”
Gaius hums as he pours hot water into the cup. “I hope not,” he says levelly. “Fevers that high are dangerous. A little hotter and there may have been permanent damage.” He pulls the bundle of herbs out of the cup and hands it to Merlin, who takes it with shaking hands.
“I’m fine,” he says. His head is pounding, and he takes a sip of the tisane Gaius has handed him. His stomach churns, and he sets it aside—he knows he won’t be able to keep it down. Arthur’s eyes are sharp, and Gaius’s are sharper.
“Sire,” says Gaius quietly. “Might I have a moment to speak with Merlin?”
Arthur stands. “Of course,” he says. “I’ll come back to check in this evening.”
“Thank you,” says Gaius. As soon as he’s gone he looks to Merlin.
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” he says. Merlin twists the blanket in his fingers.
“I’m telling you the truth,” he says, ignoring the guilt that bubbles up in his stomach. “I’ve felt a little under the weather the last few days, but I think I just need some rest.”
Gaius pins him in place with a gaze, and Merlin stares right back. Eventually, Gaius looks away and sighs. “Drink your tea,” he says quietly. “And you can go back to your own room.”
Merlin carries his tea back to his room and sits on his floor, legs stretched out in front of him. He manages to swallow half his cup of tea before he chokes and coughs it all up into his chamber pot. When he looks, the bile is tinted red, and the taste of blood lingers at the back of his throat.
There’s a knock at his door a little later, and he hasn’t moved from his spot on the floor. “Come in,” he calls.
Arthur steps into the room and closes the door carefully behind him. He’s dressed in a thin white shirt and brown pants, and he sits next to Merlin. Merlin fights back the shiver that he’s guessing came from the fever, and manages to meet Arthur’s eyes.
Arthur looks very tired, and very concerned. He’s quiet, always unusual, and slowly brings a hand up to Merlin’s shoulder.
“You said something,” he says quietly. “In my chambers, earlier.” He traces a finger over the floor, and clears his throat. “You said you didn’t want to be a monster anymore.”
Merlin’s stomach twists; Arthur can’t know this , Arthur can’t know how close to a monster Merlin still is, how hard he’s had to fight, Arthur can’t know about any of it.
“It was nothing,” he says, and the lie feels like honey in his throat. “I was delirious, Arthur. I can hardly remember what I was saying.”
Arthur is steady beside him, and Merlin hopes that this is one more lie he can keep up. He hid the magic for years, and that was a much harder secret to keep.
“Well,” says Arthur. “Even if it didn’t mean anything, I want you to know that you’re—you’re not a monster, Merlin. And you never have been.”
Merlin shifts ever so slightly away from Arthur. It’s easy for him to say. Merlin’s always guarded him, always kept him from seeing how much blood stains his hands, how many lives he’s cut short.
“Okay,” he says quietly. He can feel Arthur’s eyes on the back of his neck, and he wants to shy away.
In the end, Arthur helps him up, puts him to bed, and tells him that he has the day off tomorrow (“Don’t even think about showing up,”). Merlin checks the wound on his shoulder and finds that it’s sewn up with the neat, even stitches that only Gaius is capable of, and feels a rush of gratitude that he said nothing to Arthur.
It’s how things go on: as Merlin pushes himself further and further away from his magic, he gets sicker and sicker. His wound takes far longer than it should to heal, and he’s always a little feverish, a little dizzy. He’s sure he has to be lax in his duties, but Arthur hasn’t complained yet. He keeps leaving food out for Merlin, and he eats it, only to throw most of it up as soon as he gets back to his room.
Two months after he’s locked up his magic, he starts to cough up blood. It’s not much at first, but it lingers, persistent and ragged, and he takes to carrying a dark handkerchief in his pocket so no one will see. Arthur seems concerned about the cough, as well, but Merlin passes it off as a bad cold. He develops a chill, too, though he thinks that it’s because of the fever. Winter is settling into the crevices of the castle and lodging itself in Merlin’s bones.
Gwaine shows up at his door one night. He’s not drunk, and he’s far more serious than Merlin’s ever seen him. He means to make some excuse, to send Gwaine on his way, but he Gwaine breezes right in and sits down like he owns the place.
“You’ve not been at training for months,” he says, without preamble.
Merlin fiddles with a bottle that Gaius had left on the workbench. “I’ve been busy,” he says.
“You look ill.”
Merlin sets the bottle down and, to his own dismay, starts to cough. He clamps the handkerchief over his mouth until it subsides, and clears his throat.
“I’m fine,” he says.
Gwaine has risen to his feet and come to stand right before him. “You’re not,” he says softly. “You’re really not, Merlin.”
Merlin turns away, but Gwaine catches his shoulders in a firm grip. His brow creases, and he looks up at him.
“You’ve got a fever,” he says. “And the cough, and you’ve lost weight, and you’re not moving well—”
“Yes, Gwaine, thank you for the catalogue of all the things that are wrong with me. If you’ll excuse me—”
“Merlin,” says Gwaine, and he’s not annoyed, not angry, just gentle. “There’s something going on here that you’re not telling me. You don’t have to, but I want you to know that you can. And if you can’t, please, just…” He shakes his head. “Find someone who you can talk to. Ask for help. I’m worried about you.”
Merlin opens his mouth and very nearly spills the whole thing, the way he’s pushing back all the cold, evil things in his chest, the way that the monster in his soul is trying to burn its way out, the way that he hasn’t stopped hurting since he decided to push away his magic months ago. Instead, he whispers, “Okay.” He lets Gwaine pull him into a tight hug and lead him to his bed, cover him up with blankets and sit next to him, warm and comforting, until he falls asleep.
Gwen brings him soup the next morning and informs him that he’s not to get out of bed. She sits with him until he eats the whole bowl, and he promptly throws it up again when she leaves.
Lancelot comes in that evening, once training and dinner is done. Merlin’s feeling awful, worse than usual because he’s had nothing to distract him. He sits listlessly in his bed while Lancelot prepares some tea for him. Once Merlin’s drunk it, he sits down on the bed next to him and presses a calloused hand to his forehead.
“Merlin,” he says gently, and that’s as far as he gets before Merlin has to lunge for the chamber pot and empty the contents of his stomach, the tea too much for him to take. Lancelot says nothing, but gets him a clean cloth to wipe his face with, and a cup of water.
Once Merlin’s cleaned himself up, Lancelot nudges his shoulder. “Budge over,” he says, and plunks himself down in bed right next to Merlin. He’s so warm , and Merlin’s so cold and achingly lonely and missing the warmth of any gentleness at all that he can’t bear to pull away. He settles in, and starts to nod off immediately.
“What are you doing to yourself, Merlin?” Lancelot’s voice sounds so very far away.
“Don’t want to be a monster anymore,” mutters Merlin, and slides into sleep.
When he wakes up, the sun hasn’t risen yet, and the room is cold. He curls up closer to Lancelot, who mumbles something in his sleep and wraps an arm around Merlin’s shoulders. Merlin shuts his eyes tightly, but his head has already started to ache, and the chill has settled into his bones, and he might as well get up now and be done with it.
As soon as he stirs, Lancelot sits up as well, and catches Merlin’s arm when he stumbles.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ve got work,” he says.
“Wait a moment,” says Lancelot, and Merlin stops moving.
“What is it?”
“You said something last night,” he said, straightening the blankets on Merlin’s bed.
Merlin looks away. “I’m sure I didn’t mean—”
“You said you didn’t want to be a monster anymore.”
Merlin sets down his jacket and settles his hands on his desk. “Lance,” he says. “I really—”
“Arthur tells me that you said something very similar once in his chambers.”
“Oh, and now Arthur’s talking to you about me?”
Lancelot doesn’t rise to the bait. “He’s worried about you,” he says. “As we all are. He thought you’d be more likely to talk to me than him, and he was even more worried when he found out you weren’t talking to anyone.”
“It’s really nothing.”
Lancelot stares across at Merlin. “You’re not a monster, Merlin,” he says softly. “You never have been.”
“You don’t know that,” says Merlin, stepping back. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” says Lancelot, coming to stand in front of Merlin. “I know you, and I know what you do—”
“I killed a man in the hallway outside of Arthur’s room a few weeks ago,” he snaps. “I took his own knife and put it through his throat.”
“Merlin,” says Lancelot, and Merlin shakes his head.
“You don’t know,” he says. “You have no idea how many people I’ve killed. You don’t know what it’s like to have magic and to always be reaching for it, to know that you’re not human and you never can be, that you don’t deserve what people offer you, because there’s something wrong with you—” Tears are starting to fall, hot and itchy on Merlin’s face, pressure building in his sinuses.
Lancelot reaches out and settles a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, reaches out to brush back his tears with the other. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Merlin,” he says softly. “Least of all your magic. It’s a gift, and I’m so deeply sorry that there is anyone who has made you feel otherwise.”
Merlin starts to sob then, shoulders heaving, and Lancelot pulls him close. “You don’t know,” he croaks. “I’m not—I’m not—”
“Shh,” whispers Lancelot, and it sounds like he might be crying, too. “It’s alright. It’s alright.”
They stand like that until the sun rises, and in the light of day, Merlin dries his eyes. He extricates himself from Lancelot’s arms, ties his neckerchief around his neck, and sets out for the kitchens, ignoring the cough that still lingers at the back of his throat. Arthur has kept his chambers tidy for once, and all that remains for Merlin to do is dress him and set the bed.
“Are you well enough to join the knights on a hunt tomorrow?”
Merlin finishes straightening out Arthur’s pillows. “I’m fine,” he says.
Arthur looks at him, unfathomable, and nods. “I’ve had George prepare the supplies. We’ll set out early in the morning.”
Merlin nods, and settles the last corner of Arthur’s blankets over the mattress. “Is there anything else you need?”
Arthur gestures to a basket. “I’ve some clothes that need mending,” he said. “And there’s a set of knives that need to be sharpened.”
They’re menial tasks, ones that will take most of the day and keep Merlin in Arthur’s room, not moving around much. He can’t help but think that Arthur means something by it—Merlin’s been lax.
Still, when Arthur sets out for training, Merlin takes out a needle and thread and settles in with the mending basket. Arthur stops back once, before a council meeting in the afternoon. He eats his lunch, and leaves a plate of bread and cheese for Merlin.
Merlin spends the afternoon cleaning and sharpening and oiling the knives that Arthur left out. Arthur comes back early, a little while before dinner, eyes stormy and jaw clenched—Merlin’s fairly sure he’s just spoken to his father. He washes up in a basin of water that Merlin’s heated and lugged up from the kitchen—gone are the days when his eyes would and the water would heat itself—and folds up his own clothes before .
They sit together at the table. Merlin doesn’t eat, and Arthur has less than usual. He seems tired, and his hands are stained with ink. He takes out a sheaf of parchment as Merlin starts to clear the dishes, and starts writing. He’s intent on whatever it is he’s doing, and Merlin is left to sit on the periphery until Arthur wraps it up and sets it back in the drawer. Merlin offers him a cloth to wipe the ink from his hands. Once his hands are clean, he turns back to Merlin.
“Truly, I only want you to come on the hunt if you’re well.”
“I’m quite well,” says Merlin, swallowing back a cough.
Arthur purses his lips. He reaches out and clasps Merlin’s shoulder. “Get some rest,” he says quietly, and turns away.
“Good night, sire,” Merlin says, and closes the door behind him.
The next morning is brutally cold, and Merlin shivers in his jacket as they trudge along. Gwaine is tracking the boar, and the other knights stand ready with crossbows. Arthur keeps casting glances over at Merlin, and he blames this for what happens next.
The trail has gone cold, and they’re trying to figure out where to turn next, and the boar charges out of the thicket right in front of them. None of the knights have time to react, and Arthur’s directly in the boar’s path, so Merlin throws up a hand and calls on magic that he hasn’t touched in months.
The boar is thrown back in the brush, spine twisting, and for a moment, everything is still. Merlin can smell copper, and he drags a shaking hand to his nose. He’s bleeding from both nostrils, and he coughs, and more blood runs out of his mouth.
He coughs again, then chokes, blood dripping into the snow, and the world unfreezes, and his veins turn to lightning. His knees buckle, and he’s conscious of the fact that the snow is very cold and the ground is very hard, before everything turns to pain. His muscles jerk, beyond his control, and he thinks he might be screaming. There are hands on him, turning him on to his side, moving him back every time he rolls over. He coughs and chokes on blood, and he thinks he might have started to cry. His magic lashes out and twists through him, too much, the dam broken. His vision is starting to go dark at the edges, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. He can hear himself talking, babbling through the agony: “—make it stop, please—”
His vision clears, briefly, and he can see Arthur’s tearstained face as he leans over him, rolling him on his side once again. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, Merlin. Just hold on.”
He tries, he really does, but the darkness clouding his vision promises numbness and escape, so he shuts his eyes and lets it take him.
He wakes up on someone else’s bedroll, wrapped in a cloak that smells like Arthur’s soap. His limbs feel like lead, and his throat feels raw, and his head is pounding. He tries to sit up, and someone—Lancelot, he thinks—presses his shoulders back, and he slumps over again.
Arthur crouches beside him and settles a hand on his forehead. He frowns, and lets his hand slide to cup Merlin’s jaw. “You have a fever,” he says. “It’s very high.”
Merlin blinks dazedly up at him. He can still feel the magic, hot and sparking. “There’s too much,” he rasps.
“Too much of what?”
“Magic.” The tree branches above him are bare, slicing through the grey sky. “It’s in my bones and my blood and it’s everywhere. Too much.” His eyes start to close again, and Arthur pats his face.
“Hey,” he says gently. “Stay with me.”
Merlin drags his eyes open, and Arthur smiles slightly. He still looks scared.
“Why is it too much?” he asks. “Wasn’t it before?”
“I stopped,” he says. “I stopped it. I didn’t want to be a monster.”
“You—”
“I stopped,” he says. “And then I used it again today, and it was too much.”
“Merlin,” says Arthur, but the darkness is crawling back and Merlin slumps against Arthur’s shoulder.
He drifts in and out of consciousness as the night wears on, briefly awake when someone pours broth and water into his mouth. The pain starts up again, too, and he thinks that someone holds him and wraps him up in their cloak.
He can feel someone pick him up at some point, and maybe set him on the back of a horse. He can see Arthur from time to time, ever worried. He wants to tell him that it’ll all be okay, but he can’t quite muster the strength to move.
Eventually, his surroundings coalesce into a blur of familiarity, and he knows that he’s back in Gaius’s chambers. The sounds coming from around him are faint, like he’s underwater, and every time his eyes close, someone shakes him awake again.
When the haze finally clears and the pain has stopped clouding his vision, he finds himself in his own bed, in his own room. His limbs ache, his head throbs, and he’s freezing under an outrageous number of blankets. Arthur is sitting by his bed, slumped over. It’s dark outside, and the wind whistles past the window.
Merlin turns to look at Arthur more closely. He’s changed his clothes since they were on the hunt; he’s wearing his white sleep shirt. There’s a shadow on his jaw, so Merlin guesses he hasn’t shaved. He’s been out for a while, then.
Slowly, the events of the hunt come back to him, and with them, the crushing defeat: he tried so hard, and he couldn’t make the magic leave.
A twisted, sinister part of him whispers that it’s a good thing, and he’s certain in that moment that it’s fine if he’s a monster, it’s fine if Arthur hates him, it’s fine if he never washes the blood from his hands and never fights the damnation that burned his eyes gold from his first breaths. It’s all fine, as long as Arthur is safe.
The tears are cold on his face, and he knows he’s shaking with sobs. He’s a monster, and he was foolish to think otherwise. He couldn’t be anything else, not even for Arthur, because everything he’s done—every foul, evil act, every life he’s taken—it’s all for Arthur. He’ll do it every time; damn himself a thousand times over, destroy himself, tear away his soul piece by piece by piece—he’ll do it all if it means Arthur is safe.
He tries to roll over, but Arthur jerks awake and catches him before he can. There are dark shadows under his eyes, and his jaw is tight.
“What happened, Merlin?”
Merlin stares up at Arthur. He looks so tired, and so scared, and Merlin can’t bring himself to lie anymore.
“I stopped,” he says. “I stopped using my magic.”
Arthur freezes. “And it did this to you?”
“Only when I used it again.”
Arthur runs a hand through his hair. “When did you stop?”
“Nearly three months ago,” says Merlin, and he watches Arthur put the pieces together.
“When you—” He breaks off. “You’ve been sick for months, and I didn’t know why. I never thought…” He stands up and paces a tight lap around the room, distracted and frantic. “And you stopped talking to Gwen and Gwaine and Lancelot, and you—and—and—” He’s breathing too fast now, Merlin can see it in the rise and fall of his chest. “It’s my fault,” he chokes, and Merlin manages to sit up despite the way his whole body screams in protest.
“It’s not your fault,” he says.
“I told you to stop, and—”
“The magic makes me a monster, Arthur,” says Merlin. “And I was so grateful for the chance you gave me after you found out, but I can’t—” He scrubs at his eyes. “If it were just me, I’d stop forever, I wouldn’t care what would happen because of it. But it’s for you, and I can’t—I’ll always reach for it, Arthur, if it means saving you.”
Merlin doesn’t think he’s ever seen Arthur look so horrified. “Merlin,” he breathes, slowly sitting down next to Merlin. “I never thought you were a monster.”
“I am ,” says Merlin, and he doesn’t have the energy left to cry. “I am, and that’s why you asked me to stop. And you were right to, don’t think I believe otherwise.” He swallows a lump in his throat. “But it’s what I am. And I can’t stop, because everything I am is for you.”
“No,” whispers Arthur. “Merlin, tell me—tell me you don’t believe that.”
“It’s true,” says Merlin, and that’s as far as he gets before Arthur pulls him into his arms and holds him tight to his chest. He’s shaking, and Merlin thinks he might be crying.
“You’re not a monster, Merlin,” Arthur whispers, not moving an inch. “And you’re meant for so much more than me. Don’t ever—please Merlin. You’re made for so much more.”
“You don’t mean that,” gasps Merlin. “You can’t.”
“Your life is meant for more than me,” Arthur says, clutching Merlin tighter. “You can’t go on like this, I won’t let you.”
“I’m not human, Arthur.” Merlin tries to pull back, but Arthur doesn’t let go. “It doesn’t matter what happens to me.”
“Merlin—”
“You know it’s true!” Merlin shoves Arthur as hard as he can, and manages to pull away. Every bone in his body feels like it’s been broken and fit back together, and he can barely hold himself upright. “You wanted the magic gone, but I couldn’t do it. And I can’t stay away. If you want the magic gone, Arthur, you’ll have to kill me, because I can’t—I can’t—I can’t—”
Merlin’s breath forces itself out of his lungs and he can’t catch it again. It’s only a moment until he’s choking. His throat’s closed up completely, and he can’t draw breath. He scrabbles uselessly at his chest and doubles over. Tears force themselves out of the corners of his eyes, and he thinks that this must be what it feels like to die.
Arthur pulls him upright and brings one of Merlin’s hands to his chest. “Breathe with me,” he says. Merlin tries to inhale and fails, tries again and curses the wetness on his cheeks.
“It’s alright,” says Arthur. “Come on. Deep breath in—”
And Merlin manages a shallow inhale, one that’s almost immediately forced back out.
“Good,” says Arthur. “Good. Just keep breathing.”
The minutes that it takes for Merlin to regain control of his breath are agonizing. By the time he does, he’s shaking horribly, and can feel tears running down his face.
“It’s alright,” whispers Arthur, shifting to sit next to Merlin. He slides an arm around him and squeezes his shoulder. “It’s alright.”
Merlin looks over at Arthur, and for a moment, he wavers and slumps into Arthur’s side. That’s all it takes; Arthur carefully loops his arms around Merlin and guides them both down to curl up on the bed.
“I’m sorry,” rasps Merlin.
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”
“My magic.” Merlin closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see the look on Arthur’s face.
“Merlin—”
“You should hate me,” he says, and Arthur takes his chin and forces him to meet his eyes.
“Listen to me,” he says, gaze intent. “Your magic does not make you a monster. I only asked you to stop using it because I’m terrified of what my father would do if he found out. I didn’t realize…” He trails off.
Merlin is pressed up against Arthur’s chest, and he’s fully warm and safe for the first time in months. His whole body still aches, and the magic in his veins is still too close to the surface. “He’s right,” Merlin says quietly, and looks away.
“He’s not,” whispers Arthur, hand ghosting over Merlin’s hair.
“I’ve done awful things, Arthur.” Merlin can’t quite manage to meet Arthur’s eyes, but he can see his face soften.
“So have I,” he says. “We all… We all do things we’re not proud of, Merlin, magic or no.”
“But I’m not…” Merlin squeezes his eyes shut.
“You’re not what?”
“I’m not human. Not like you.”
“Oh, Merlin,” whispers Arthur. “How could you think that?”
Merlin opens his mouth to respond, but chokes on a fresh sob. Arthur just gathers him up in his arms and holds him tight.
“Merlin, you’re human in every way that matters. You’re the most—you have the kindest heart of anyone I’ve ever known. You’re the best of any of us, and you’re not—you’re not a monster.”
Merlin sits up and Arthur moves with him, not letting go of Merlin’s arm. “Merlin,” he says again. “Do you believe me?”
Merlin shakes his head minutely, and Arthur sighs.
“Do you need me to tell you how I know you’re not a monster?”
Merlin stares straight ahead. “You can’t—”
“I know that the first day I met you, you stepped in to stop me from being cruel to a servant. You saved my life even though I’d been nothing but an ass. You saved my life again even though I didn’t listen to you. You admitted to being a sorcerer because you thought it might save Gwen, you drank poison for me, you did everything you could for Lancelot when he came to Camelot the first time, you saved Mordred even when it meant you were putting your own life on the line, you were ready to upend a life you’d built to help your mother—”
“Arthur,” says Merlin weakly. “I’m really not—”
“No,” says Arthur, with surprising force. “You are not a monster. I won’t let you go on thinking that way.”
Merlin looks away, and Arthur’s face softens.
“You’re a good man, Merlin. I know you, and I know that there’s nothing you could hide from me that would change that.”
Finally, Merlin manages to turn to face Arthur, and his breath catches at the earnestness in his eyes.
“There are things you don’t know,” he says.
“But I know you,” says Arthur. “And I trust you.”
“Why?”
Arthur smiles, and it’s the most beautiful thing Merlin’s ever seen. “Your magic,” he says.
“What do you mean?” Magic made him a traitor, made him a monster—
“All that power, Merlin,” Arthur says. “All the power and you’re still so—” He takes a deep breath. “Power can go to a man’s head, make him crave more, make him think that he’s the master of things he’s not. You’ve seen my father. But you?” He shakes his head. “You’re so good. To hold that kind of power and that kind of goodness together is a rare thing.”
Merlin can feel himself flush, and he starts to turn away, but Arthur catches his chin.
“Look at me, Merlin,” he says, and Merlin does. “I know what it looks like when men are monsters, and you are anything but. You were born with an extraordinary gift, into a world that cannot hope to understand it, but you are not damned, or evil, or monstrous, or any of the things that people say in their fear.”
Merlin feels a smile pull at the corners of his mouth for the first time in months. “When did you become so wise, sire?”
Arthur grins at him, bright and boyish. “I guess I’ve been spending too much time around you.”
Merlin blushes for certain this time, and Arthur’s arm tightens around his shoulders before his face becomes serious again. “I know that this isn’t easy,” he says carefully. “And that it’s not over. The world we live in leaves its mark. But I want you to know that I’m here for you, Merlin.”
Merlin reaches out for Arthur’s hand. “Thank you,” he says, and Arthur squeezes his fingers.
“Anytime,” says Arthur. He glances out the window at the moon, and sighs. “It’s late,” he says. “You should get some rest.”
As if it’s been waiting for the reminder, the ache in Merlin’s limbs bleeds back in, and a wave of exhaustion washes over him. Arthur eases him back down to the mattress and covers him with the blanket. He stops for a moment before he leaves, and leans down. “Rest well, Merlin,” he says, and presses a kiss to his forehead.
Merlin feels the ghost of the kiss for hours afterward and he drifts in and out of sleep.
It takes a few weeks for Merlin to recover, and his magic is sluggish at first. When he’s up and walking again, Arthur starts taking Merlin into the woods so that he can use his magic in safety, and walking him back up to Gaius’s chambers when he’s done. He doesn’t take on another manservant while Merlin’s out of commission, and he visits Merlin on the days where he’s particularly unwell.
When Merlin can stand through the day and his bones have mostly stopped aching, he starts bringing Arthur his meals again and sitting on the periphery of the training field. He doesn’t go to the tavern with Gwaine, but he joins him and Lancelot sometimes when they eat their meals. He starts walking with Gwen to the laundry rooms again, and life starts to settle back into the usual groove.
Some things are different, though. On the nights when his hands feel sticky with blood no matter how many times he washes them, when he chokes on his screams and can’t catch his breath, he can go up to Arthur’s room, and Arthur will sit with him until he stops shaking. He’ll settle Merlin under his blankets, and he’ll wake the next morning curled up next to Arthur with sunlight streaming in through the windows.
It takes a few months, but Merlin does manage to banish the worst of the ache in his bones. He’s careful about his magic, and Arthur’s careful along with him, and for the first time in his life, he’s not afraid of himself, and he’s not afraid that he’ll die.
There comes a day, early in the spring, when the snow has melted and the first daisies have started to grow, that Arthur takes him into the woods with a picnic basket on the back of his horse. They spread an old horse blanket out on the ground, and eat bread and cheese and jam from the basket, and Arthur marvels at the butterflies that spark blue and gold from Merlin’s fingertips.
“Lovely,” he says, and looks over at Merlin, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Just like you.”
Merlin blushes and loses concentration, and Arthur laughs before pulling Merlin into a kiss. When he pulls back, Merlin can hardly string together two words, and Arthur smiles softly.
“Why?” whispers Merlin, finally, and Arthur’s face turns serious.
“Because I love you,” he says. “Have for quite awhile now, but I didn’t want to take advantage when you were—”
He doesn’t finish, because something warm and overwhelming surges up in Merlin’s chest and he kisses Arthur this time, throwing them both off-balance and into the grass. Arthur manages to slow their fall and smiles up at Merlin.
“I love you, too,” says Merlin, before Arthur can say anything. He starts to laugh, and Arthur pulls him to his feet, and they pack up the picnic and set out back to Camelot.
They both sleep in Arthur’s bed that night, and Merlin watches the rise and fall of Arthur's chest and knows now, that he didn’t claw out his heart to hand to Arthur: Arthur was gentle enough to hold it when Merlin couldn’t. There’s nothing bloody about this love, nothing torn. And he thinks that now he’s got a chance at being whole.