.
.
A loud, incoherent groan erupts from above him, piercing the daze and haze. Like a wood mannequin's strings being clipped, Arthur's muscular upper half weighs down on him.
To keep him from completely falling, Merlin slowly relocks his arms around the other man, embracing and dragging Arthur onto his side to face him.
Merlin's left shoulder aches terribly, coming down to a weak stinging in time with his thudding, excited pulse. Reddened impressions of teeth left behind as a testament.
Arthur latched his mouth on and bit down.
(If that didn't stir whatever lust sought cohering in him, then well…)
He meant to leave a welt. Arthur meant to leave behind visible proof that what they were doing now was genuine, that Merlin as his, as if it were possessive, jealous instinct. Lacking the antagonism behind it.
Arthur's face remains tucked to Merlin's neck, with him saying nothing even as Merlin drowsily noses his hair, inhaling.
Human.
So human.
"Mmh." He mouths Arthur's scalp, lips rubbing. "Th't wss…"
Good.
It was very good.
Arthur feels boneless and loose, easy and warm in the best manner. Good is a bit of an understatement, too. That's what he wants to tell Merlin. All that leaves him is a satisfied grunt in agreement as a mouth nudges faintly against his hair.
… Maybe next time.
Fingers flexing, his arm curling tighter around the smaller body next to him as Arthur buries his face further into the other man's neck. He's comfortable like this — more than comfortable. This was where he wants to be, for tonight, for the rest of his time here. Forever.
Yes… that seems nice.
Arthur may have said as much, but he isn't sure quite what comes out of his mouth.
However, Merlin holds to Arthur no more tighter than the moment needs. Simply choosing to indulge in the scent and warmth of the other man. No ordinary man holds back, as these are no ordinary circumstances.
Thoughts of 'Avalon's magic' or 'kings' or 'preordained doomed existence' sinks away from him, floating puffy-faced and heavy to the very bottom of Merlin's swimmy consciousness.
Arthur's large, muscled body shifts closely against him, cock limp and damp with fluid to the outside of Merlin's thigh. Despite the lack of vocalized coherency between them and the racing of his blood in his eardrums… Merlin isn't especially accustomed with this.
With this feeling of closeness. Twisted in sheets, a human-warm, naked body within reach, and preparing to succumb to rest.
Merlin can't remember a time where any of his partners stayed.
(Nor him, for that matter. It was… too intimate. Falling asleep in someone else's arms. Believing you were safe and wanted. Too trusting.)
Sex came with a new territory in these modern ages. No one had to commit. No one needed to love you with all their heart to poke you around a bit. Not even in public. They just needed a dose of hot, liquid courage, transport, and a wide breadth of desire for the physical act.
His instincts pull Arthur towards him, genuinely feeling wanted for once, but it doesn't occur to Merlin to expect a difference. Arthur isn't like any casual partner, or any living existence on this tiny, blue planet Merlin knew. But can there be surety in knowing this?… That Arthur needs him, and not just wants?
The answer drifts past the blood in Merlin's head, pounding and pounding softly, Arthur's mouth parting to his neck, "—forever."
When it registers in him, that mumbled little word, Merlin wakes up gradually from a deep, undisturbed sleep. Very gradually. Sunshine blares inside the room, but does no more than irritate him enough glare at his own window pointlessly and roll over.
Hangovers rarely exist for anything immortal, even if it was likely more than he probably should have had last night. The clothing-less results, however — Merlin wouldn't have traded for anything.
.
.
Naturally, Arthur didn't remember when he fell asleep.
He simply closed his eyes and the rest turned dark. The next thing he knew he woke up to a faint glow through his eyelids and a throbbing on the sides of his head.
Arthur snuffles a croaky, soft groan, slowly rolling onto his back. He notes the mild chill up his spine, and then heat just barely ghosting against his skin. His fully bare skin.
It takes Arthur a moment of confused silence to figure out why exactly he's naked—but then, the night comes rushing to the front of his memory in a sudden burst of excitement.
His eyes snap open, ignoring the pain of adjusting to the morning light in favour of turning his attention to the person next to him.
Merlin, who was slightly tucked away by wrinkled covers, whose dark hair stuck up in the back in a sleepy sort of way, but also he gives insight to the night before—seeing as he also quite naked.
It's a beautiful sight to wake up to. Eyes trail slowly along Merlin's lean body, taking in what he had not truly been able to the night before. It seems like a shame.
With Merlin splayed out and relaxed, Arthur's able to glimpse him. Scars, ones like battle wounds collected over time that appear so utterly wrong etched Merlin's pale skin. Merlin shouldn't have those. He wasn't a warrior. He never had the training. He had the ability to heal.
And yet…
Arthur blearily remembers a few details about what led to the bedroom, but he remembers the look on Merlin's face clearly when his shirt came off. The thought alone is enough for Arthur to gently roll back onto his stomach, hands touching lightly against Merlin's side as his chin props up on his chest.
The one, a white line looking like a slash wound along Merlin's ribs, is the first of the scars that Arthur presses his lips to. The motion cautious, feather-light until he repeats it, as if the more he does… the better the chances of it disappearing grows.
He wants to kiss all of Merlin, have his lips everywhere on him, and this will be the place to start.
Arthur nuzzles his head against him, liftin it momentarily to mouth at the crook underneath Merlin's jaw as his fingers trace over the other scars much lower.
So many. Too many.
He can feel Merlin moving underneath his fingertips. The slow, semi-regular rise and fall of his chest, the sound of his breathing filling the otherwise quiet room. Arthur swears he feels the pulse of Merlin's heart beating against the swell of his own lips as he trails them down the arch of Merlin's neck.
It's a serene moment of peace only marred by the sensation of Merlin's old wounds beneath his fingertips. Arthur knows the difference of flesh and scars without even looking; he mapped his own enough times over the years to have a full understanding.
Arthur's mouth presses to his collarbone lightly, peppering where teeth dug in the night before with apologetic kisses. His hands wander down further, the left sliding along Merlin's side.
Merlin's skin is an expanse of territory not yet charted, and behind the tired exuberance for his current work, Arthur feels a thrill similar to the ones he would get before embarking on a journey.
The need to explore, to find out more.
As Arthur's thumb drags over ribs and his body shifts lower, Arthur feels Merlin begin to wake. It's the simple knowledge of his consciousness that keeps Arthur going, eyes flickering upward as the rest of him travels downward.
Not opening his eyes, but relaxing his half-exposed limbs, Merlin hitches in a breath. A tickling sensation on his chest, light and firm. He wants to scratch at it, for a brief moment, but drowsily ignores it.
Until it happens again.
And then warm, big hands cradle his sides. Merlin's skin, and his entire being, shivers pleasantly as Arthur—it is Arthur; even with eyes shut, Merlin knows the presence of bright, familiar soul-light when it's centimeters from him—moves up him.
Dry, sleepy lips touch against the space under Merlin's chin, nudging and exploring lazy as Arthur's fingertips do the same, etching his ribs.
Perhaps it's time to make it known that he's aware of this. Merlin raises a hand slowly, rubbing his fingers over an eyelid and whispering, "...M'rnning."
Stormy blue peek open, adjusting to the lighting and to the view of Arthur's nose almost colliding his lips.
Wait.
He feels Arthur's thumb caress over him. No, over one of Merlin's scars. Purposely.
Merlin's lips quirk up from a faint smile that builds.
"…Whhru doing?" he tries to ask with some urgency, sliding his hand over Arthur's to clasp it loosely.
Arthur's hand turn, palm facing up as he laces their fingers together in response before offering a low him against Merlin's stomach.
"Appreciating what I couldn't last night," Arthur finally murmur, slowing to press a real, firm kiss there before continuing on. There are so many that at this angle it's hard to keep track, but Arthur won't forget a single one. He can't.
Whether he could explain it or not, he knows this is important. At least to him.
Arthur's hands are sleepy, open pressure against him, hot and weighted. Cradling and large, spanning broader than Merlin's paler ones—though he's certain his own fingers were longer, bone-jointed.
Merlin thinks it's fair to assume both of them knows the other was awake, and what exactly is happening. Arthur is… searching out familiarity. Tracing the long, silvery marks across Merlin's chest with his mouth and with the soft brush of his fingertips, perhaps to memory.
And him asking Arthur why feels rather pointless, seeing that his king is determined to do as he pleased often half the time.
Merlin takes in a deep, relaxing breath and peeks out through his lashes once more. Staring at Arthur's profile. The faint definition of a cheekbone beneath warm-toned, golden skin. The deep pink contour of Arthur's upper lip.
There comes an impulse, riding fast, to push his fingers through the blond, tousled mess of Arthur's hair. Comb away his uncut bangs and run his palm against the side of Arthur's face.
To try and memorise the moment as well.
But Merlin's hand remains with Arthur's, their fingers locking together. Blossoming heat spreading through the warlock, fond and unchanged.
He drags the golden arm up him, having it settle limply before Merlin silently touches Arthur's hand under his chin, holding it there curled. And it does nothing to halt the barely-there kisses, or grazing sensations.
A shudder of a laugh ghosts murmurous from Merlin's lips.
He won't dare think of revealing that his ribs were a might ticklish. Merlin gotten through nearly two millennial without Arthur figuring it out—he's bloody well set on keeping it that way, if chance let him. Arthur would show him no mercy pinning him down in a tickle war.
And Merlin would rather not wet himself from mad hysterics.
The most it gets out of him is a little squirm in place, and Merlin smiles boyishly at Arthur's earlier murmur. "Heh—I beg to differ, on the lack of appreciation bit," he says, dark head shifting on his pillow.
And then, Merlin's body strings up tight, like a nocking of a bow. Air sucks in through Merlin's teeth. Magic under the surface of his skin reverberates, like the kinetic echo of that bow.
His leg instinctively nudges Arthur's shoulder, nearly pressing it away.
The violet-bruising and blackened scar, sunken in its center, and no bigger than a cherry tomato, feels completely raw to another person's touch.
"Sorry," he mumbles, letting their hands free and watching Arthur's expression solemnly. A trickle of relief when Arthur's hand slide off from his side. "I'm… not used to anyone getting close to it."
Which is a grievous understatement.
No one ever saw he had such a marking. Merlin kept it bandaged from sight whenever he knew someone would glimpse him without a proper top or a jumper.
Damn, he needs to…... they need to just forget it. Merlin attempts to backtrack, forcing a smile.
"Don't mind it—s'complicated."
Arthur knows that look, that instinct to pull away. Merlin feels he has to be guarded; Arthur had seen it in the other man's eyes before. No matter how Merlin tries to cover it up, it's always there. No amount of smile covers that wariness up.
Arthur's chin once again props up on Merlin's torso.
Complicated? Isn't that all their life were now?
Arthur had risen from the land of the dead, only to find himself over a thousand years in the future. Centuries after his people, his kingdom fallen and died away.
He learned of everything Merlin had done during their time together, Arthur was nearly killed by a car. He had been forced to face the part of his father inside him when Arthur snapped and let himself release his anger on the one person he cared for most. He and Merlin had gone on a date.
Their lives are so very complicated. A bruise on the body Arthur planned on treasuring would not be allowed to fall in that category as well.
"Tell me about it," Arthur finally says, not breaking eye contact as his fingers carefully brush around the edges of the discoloured scar. He's gentle as he can be, mouth pressing against Merlin's skin again. "You know the stories of mine. I want to know yours."
.
.
He didn't mean to recoil. To put up his barriers. Arthur had done nothing wrong—he wouldn't, couldn't do anything wrong in this.
If they are truly, and honestly, going to attempt a relationship beyond their ages-long and cherished friendship, Merlin needs to let it all go. He needs to see again that Arthur is Arthur, and to be so cautious against something as simple as human touch would be… damaging.
The slightly incredulous look on Arthur's face at the mention of "complicated" is rightfully earned, he expects. It does sound a little barmy if Merlin considers all of their circumstances in a grouping.
Arthur's hand scoots up Merlin's chest, dragging the light dusting of black curlicues as the other man sets his chin down gently, staring calmly and pointedly at Merlin.
Merlin swallows down a rebuttal, because it's unwarranted.
Where does Arthur get to be so levelheaded…?
The corners of Merlin's mouth twitch up. He doesn't go taut, or hiss when Arthur's fingers etch around the ugly, wrinkled scar. But he isn't going to ignore Arthur's questions, or deny him the answers.
Arthur can tell Merlin is trying not to flinch. Under his touch, Arthur feels coiled muscle slowly unravelling, deeper breaths smoothing them out.
Arthur will get an answer out of him, even if it takes longer than expected. They have all the time in the world.
Luckily, Merlin's reluctance caves before that.
Merlin lets himself fully lean back, head impacting one of his pillows and closing his eyes against the disarray of his thoughts grinding back at him.
His hands scrub roughly against his face, moving slowly down when he removes them.
… Mab," he says, conversationally. Merlin's voice toneless and flat.
Mab.
The woman whose presence caused the emotion-charged divide between them to crumble and flare. The witch who played with Arthur's mind, causing him to say and think things he never would have otherwise. And now, the being who almost took Merlin away from him before Arthur had the chance to have him at all.
It's safe to say she holds a bitter impression in Arthur's mind.
Arthur's lips press together in thought as he continues to listen. He doesn't like Merlin's tone; he almost wants emotion. Something that makes this feel like less of a third party retelling.
But Arthur stays quiet, focused on taking it all in.
"Y'know, I wasn't being completely blinkered when I said she was dangerous. I've never been able to reason with her. I've never been able to stop her. Trying to defeat the Fae is a bit like yelling at an oncoming storm." Hard to kill is what Merlin meant. But he doesn't feel like voicing every atrocity he ever considered to Arthur.
"This…" Pale, spindly fingers press to the bruising scar, avoiding Arthur's fingers. "It'is a reminder." He gazes back to Arthur's eyes, face stern. "What happens when you face something more ancient and…" Darker. More powerful than you. "I wasn't careful. Not enough."
Heavy history in those words, and the look Merlin gives him proof enough for Arthur to know it so. Powerful, old and greedy, even compared to Merlin, means trouble.
"A barbed arrow." Merlin sizes out the length between his fingers. A good few inches of space left for a visual. "No bigger than this. It was tainted with her magic… hell magic, and I wasn't careful…"
The next breath out is rushed, louder. Merlin's smile thin and terse. Clearly mocking itself.
"And there was nothing I could do when it struck me."
Arthur understands where this leads, and that twist in his heart returns. Finally, he looks away, eyes on Merlin's skin.
She shot him.
Mab shot Merlin with an arrow laced with dark magic, and—
He finds it difficult to swallow when Merlin's voice shakes. Arthur can't ignore that tone. He doesn't want to look up, because Merlin will see his anger. Even if it was for Merlin's sake, he doesn't want him to know it.
If the room was anymore quiet, everyone in it would hear Merlin's heart pound quick from his chest.
"Arthur, I said that when that kind of magic touches you… it corrupts. It erases everything inside you that was good and whole. What happened to Lancelot was a fate worse than death, but he was only mortal. Raised from the dead by Morgana, by the powers of her darkest magic. And I couldn't die, and it was consuming me."
His gaze snaps to Merlin, lips pressing down together. Arthur knew of the effects of magic, especially of a certain darkness.
He doesn't need it explained to him. He seen what happened to Morgana. To others. Flashes of his most loyal knight appear in his mind. Lancelot had not been himself during their last encounters together; in fact, he hadn't been himself at all.
It didn't help to know that he did not receive the honour and peace after his sacrifice. It also hurt Arthur to know he himself sent Guinevere away because of something that was Morgana's bidding.
Arthur looks away again, finding it easier than taking in the fragile state of Merlin's smile. He's so angry. Angry because of what happened to Merlin, about the pain Mab inflicted on him over the years. Angry because this was the woman Merlin gone up against alone once again. And now, Arthur knows very well just how much of a risk that is.
But most of all, he's angry at the fact that there is nothing that could be done.
Merlin is not Morgana, nor has the bitterness and hatred carried in Morgause. But that darkness may be inside him, growing, and Arthur had seen parts of Merlin that changed since their last encounters. The witch did this to him—or perhaps, she only sped up the process.
His chest aches, and Arthur's throat feels as if it's closing.
"…" A weak, cynical laugh escapes him, Merlin's smile so brittle. "I wanted to see you. Alive. I begged at nothing. It… …"
This isn't easy. Recalling any of this.
It's preferable to… disappear. To shift away, shift to a new form, and to evade the harsh memories that creep over him. Or the harsher lives lived. To someone like Mab, Merlin had been a mere child who had not feared where he stepped. A fool, but not simple. And certainly not weak.
Perhaps that's why she couldn't bear the thought of him.
A human-like creature who contained limitless power. Immortal, but weighed down by his convictions and restrained from hellish temptation by thoughts of his creed and of love.
Merlin's fingers absently push to the bruising mark, but not enough to cause any sharp pain. As he speaks, blandly and without much of an expression, Arthur's mouth thins and eyebrows furrows. Merlin understands it's not with an grievance towards him but rather it's a gesture in taking in the information. Managing to swallow it down.
(Arthur only has this life. He can not shift away. He can not evade his creeds or love.)
Speaking Mab's name aloud, Arthur's muscles start to go rigid, where he still lays near Merlin. He remembers… Arthur has to. Hard not to. The entire incident of Merlin forcibly using his magic, and trapping Arthur inside the cottage while the warlock faced her alone.
It had been a terrible mistake. And, Merlin has not heard any further forgiveness on the subject… not that he's completely sure he deserves so much as a single, gossamer strand of it.
Instead of answering, Arthur shushes him, mouth touching a brief, lingering kiss to Merlin's abdomen. Faint emotion hovers, soft and unspoken causing a fainter shiver at the purposeful warmth.
"I'm alive. I'm here with you," he explains. "That dark magic has not taken you away from me."
Arthur won't let it.
Over a thousand years, and multiple battles, wars, and plots against Arthur's life still never managed to pull Merlin permanently from his side. The idea that something internal and invisible could possibly take that all away is terrifying. Merlin isn't smiling but his grip is fierce, real, and that's enough. He hopes it's enough for the both of them.
Merlin wraps his fingers securely to Arthur's searching his, holding on.
"It didn't," he says, whispering.
Merlin straightens up, chin raised, voice low, "I need to tell you something, even… when I swore I would never speak of it, but you deserve to know the whole truth. I owe you that." He goes silent a moment, just content with feeling Arthur's pulse strong. Wishing to feel it to his lips.
"I was saved," Merlin says, a corner of his mouth quirking, sardonically.
Arthur braces himself for whatever it is to come, but hearing this, he stares in astonishment.
This is good, isn't it? It's more than good—
"When I called out for help, the dragons heard me." Stormy blue eyes glance up solemnly at Arthur's outright confusion. "Yeh, they're still alive. A colony, hidden and safe. Has been for a long time. Longer than I can guess. Not loads of them, but… my father kept that secret to his grave."
"In order to save a life, something important has to be sacrificed. Or the balance can't be met." Merlin's voice thickens. His chest hammering that awful heartbeat, eyes squinting up. He can't… keep secrets anymore. "They wanted to save the Last Dragonlord, and the dragons could… but for that to happen, I had to willingly give up a part of myself."
Dragons were a touchy subject, considering the era of Camelot's reign. Considering what Kilgharrah had done. Arthur had no affiliation or love for their kind—or really, Merlin's kind.
Merlin doesn't expect that he may ever. Qualities of a stubborn dollophead, he supposes. Arthur's brow wrinkles, but he says nothing. He says nothing for most of Merlin talking.
Merlin's head lowers, as he scratches his fingernails over his temple. A nervous tic of a breathless laugh sounds.
"There was only one thing worth offering at the time," he says, gripping harder onto Arthur's hand, his own palm slick. "And I did it. Without hesitating because there wasn't time left. I sacrificed my humanity to purge myself of the dark magic. And to live to see this day."
Arthur suddenly feels lightheaded as he processes… what?
Merlin sacrificed his humanity?
He sacrificed his… …
Was that even possible?
Merlin said he hadn't hesitated; Merlin gave away the last bit that made him human? Merlin isn't human. He said he never meant to speak of it again. Did that mean he wasn't planning on telling him before? Was Arthur supposed to just continue on only knowing of his magic?
"How?" Arthur speaks up, curtly.
"You can't explain something like that."
"Try."
Something as resilient and as deeply rooted as 'humanity'… to have that ripped out had been an nonphysical agony. The poison itself had been debilitating on his senses, slowly rotting Merlin, but that feeling was nothing compared to afterward.
His dragon-kin endured Merlin's writhing and screams, the violent hallucinations and mumbling pleas to beings that were not there.
When the ritual was over, when Merlin was finally saved—the pain was so absolute.
So much so to the point where he did not react. Severe bodily paralysis kept Merlin from rising to his feet, from breathing on his own. The mental shock of losing something so precious was… even worse. His magic, frailer than a songbird's heartbeat, whimpered inside him. His kin fed him their magic, allowing their life essence to slip into his.
It all felt… different from before.
As a boy, Merlin could feel the earth if he could concentrate hard enough, if the ground was holy enough. But now, Merlin felt everything.
Felt the earth sigh, and rage, and weep. He couldn't turn it off. Not even for a moment.
He's part of its existence now.
It helped to be distracted, to not think on himself or his complicated past. Which is why Merlin found it less taxing and beneficial to transform into other people, other aliases. Reaching out to those were shiny and new souls, viewing him with wide and innocent eyes.
"What that felt like…" Merlin's inhale shudders. "It wasn't being empty, not cold. But there's something missing… I know it should be here with me." A genuine smile appear on Merlin's face, crooked and sudden. "And I tried filling it with different identities, different outlooks and different people, and things like sin."
Merlin's teeth yank roughly at his bottom lip.
"I'm not alive, but… it's not like being dead either. The first time I've ever felt like myself was that morning, being pinned by my neck to that tree." Blue eyes met blue, as he murmurs thoughtfully, "Seeing you covered in the lakewater. I thought… maybe it was worth it."
Arthur's old, old eyes remind him of the pain, of why he hides in plain sight, but Merlin knows in his heart he can't run forever.
Arthur will help him face it. He will be the healing.
He isn't trying to alarm the other man, and Merlin very well understands that he has with this new revelation (on top of the many), but grateful that Arthur doesn't lean away, doesn't stare critically.
But, Arthur doesn't quite know what to say. What could there be to say in response to something that monumental? Merlin isnot the same man he knew during his time as an heir and king. And yet, he is capable of it. Merlin just needs to be reminded of that sometimes.
Arthur's fingers lock around his, lips quirking a little more.
"Perhaps it was worth it," he says.
Merlin's chest warms, pushing away the tension at the small smile, and echoes it faintly to Arthur. With his free hand, Merlin rubs a thumb meditatively over the edge of a sun-gold shoulder.
"Now what sort of sins are you making mention to, Merlin?"
"Excuse me?" Merlin laughs out, glimpsing the coy eyebrow-raise. "No, no, that's for another time. One life-shattering story at a time. Small doses are recommended."
Arthur snorts.
"Whatever you say."
There is, apparently, no humanity left in Merlin. He sacrificed it to stay himself, and now only his magic and dragon blood remains. Keeps him here.
Despite Merlin saying it's true, Arthur doesn't quite believe that. He still see so much of the man he used to be shining in his eyes when Merlin laughs to think that it's gone forever.
"Speaking of…" Merlin gives him a pointed, serious look. "How's your thick head? The last time you got tankard you managed to keep your last meal down, but maybe we shouldn't wait to see how long that stays true."
Arthur managed to forget about the throbbing in his temples by distracting himself with Merlin's skin and his stories, but now it all rushes clearly back into his mind.
He bites back a groan as his skull pounds viciously with the reminder.
"Please, stop trying to be funny, Merlin," Arthur mutters, eyes shutting as he tries to fight the queasiness that comes with the notion that his dinner may not stay in his stomach.
Blimey, if there is anything more terrible in this modern age, it's the particular types of hangovers.
"I'm not sure I like modern day drinks if this is what it's like."
.
.
BBC Merlin isn't mine. HERE'S THE NEW CHAPTER. SORRY I'VE BEEN AWAY. It's been a long month and a half honestly... I didn't know what I was going to do. But I wanna thank everyone who is still sticking around for reading and following this, and whoever is commenting, I love you lots. I hope you enjoyed!