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“Merlin,” Arthur asks, tilting his head curiously as he soaks in the tub, finger absently caressing the mark painted onto his skin where his shoulder and neck meet. “Why do you never show your soulmark?”
Merlin doesn’t look at him when he answers, just focuses on plucking dirty tunics from the floor. “You don’t show your soulmark either, sire.”
Arthur huffs. “That’s not the same. I can’t. But if I weren’t the prince of Camelot, I would be showing it off everywhere. Most people do. Aren’t you worried you won’t find your soulmate?”
Arthur scoops some water into his hands and runs it over the skin of his arms, his neck, his face. He will never understand Merlin, the way that he willingly hides from the world, from his other half. Arthur remembers the exact moment his mark appeared: he was four years old, taking dinner with his father, when he felt the strangest tingling sensation. He felt warm, too, like he might have come down with a fever. He told Uther, who immediately sent him down to Gaius, where they discovered sparkling gold carving itself into his skin, an eye like sunlight etched onto the face of a coin.
He’d been so excited, so fiercely proud of it that he immediately ran to show Morgana and half the knights before they explained to him that he would have to keep it a secret to avoid imposters falsifying marks and claiming their right to the throne.
“I can’t show my mark, Arthur,” Merlin says, patiently, shaking out a pair of trousers from their crumpled position under the bed. “Are you ready to get out of there yet? Aren’t you getting pruney?”
Water flows between his fingers. He watches the way the little droplets separate, forming into their own being on his skin as he lifts a hand out of the water, how they flow back together as one when he resubmerges. “Why? Is it in a shocking place?”
He’s just teasing, of course, which is why it’s so mortifying when he feels his own cheeks warm.
But it fades when he realizes Merlin is blushing too, and still refusing to look at him. Arthur grins wickedly. “Oh my god, it is, isn’t it?”
“No, Arthur,” he denies, exasperated. “I—”
He stares at a spot on the floor, eyebrows furrowed. But then, just as quickly as the tension appears, it dissipates.
“I can’t show my mark because I don’t have one. I’m Unmarked. Alright?”
Arthur reels back slightly, as if he was struck. Of all of the possible answers to his question, that wasn’t one he’d ever considered. It seemed impossible. Merlin, Unmarked?
A confusing mix of bewilderment and disappointment rise within him before he tamps it down violently, letting denial take its place and forging on. This has nothing to do with him, he is merely sympathizing with the man. Really, how awful to realize that, as of now, he does not have a person in the world that is his and his alone; that he could love and be loved by perfectly; that would walk through life with him as his second self. And at his age, if his mark hasn’t appeared already, it likely never will.
Arthur gazes at Merlin, a golden sheen from the setting sun illuminating raven hair and sharp cheekbones; a long, pale neck covered modestly with a neckerchief, lithe fingers straightening and adjusting the room to rights. And he thinks, How truly tragic.
***
“Actually, there are perks to being Unmarked, you know.”
Merlin sighs. They’ve been walking for hours in this muggy forest, the bugs swarming so insistently around him he’s sure he’ll be hearing buzzing in his head for days, and he’s sweating like a roasting pig under all these layers.
He is so not in the mood for this.
“Really, Merlin. I don’t know why you’re so secretive.” Arthur cuts through some vines with his sword, grunting as one swings back to slap him in the face. Merlin bites his lip to keep from laughing.
“Just because you don’t have a destiny with someone doesn’t mean you’re incomplete,” he continues. “Besides, it’s not like you’ll be completely alone forever. You’ll have me.”
Merlin stops in his tracks. Did he hear him right?
He glances at Arthur, wiping sweat and sticky locks from his forehead, to see him cutting through the path with adorably furrowed eyebrows. He does nothing to retract his statement, so Merlin decides, foolishly, to take the bait.
“I will?”
“Sure. Who else is going to polish my boots when I’m King?”
Merlin almost laughs— it’s so predictable. He should have seen it coming.
“Who is going to polish them now?”
Arthur huffs and turns to him, exasperated and playful, an amused smile tugging at his lips. He looks boyish like this, beads of sweat running down his temples with the exertion, blond hair curling around his ears, a vibrant spark in his eyes. Merlin tries desperately not to find it endearing.
“ Mer lin,” he drawls. “I thought I ordered you to do that earlier this week.”
Merlin shrugs, just to irk him. “I was busy.”
“Yes, I should think so. You’re busy being my manservant . Not that you ever remember.”
Sorry, sire, he wish he could say, I was preventing your assassination. Again.
Instead, he just grins, enjoying how easy it is to rile Arthur. Antagonizing him is the best part of the day.
Sometimes, it’ll even distract him from the mark peeking out from under Arthur’s jacket collar like a vicious taunt.
“Anyways, I think you should count yourself lucky.”
“Sire, if you don’t mind, I’d really rather not talk about it.” He’s beginning to regret insisting on tagging along on one of Arthur’s solo missions. But really, the man can hardly be left up to his own devices.
“Why not? It’s nothing to—”
“Right, yes, I get it,” Merlin snaps, thrashing violently at the bugs swarming him. When will they get out of this- this godforsaken swamp? “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Can we move onto something else, please?”
There’s a blissful moment of silence, the first pause in Arthur’s ongoing chatter since Merlin told him he was Unmarked. Merlin finally feels like he’s able to take a breath, but then Arthur charges ahead, snapping branches and stomping through foliage. Merlin thinks about telling him to stop destroying habitats and leave the poor plants alone, but he’s clearly working off some sort of princely ego at the moment, and Merlin knows from experience that he shouldn’t be disturbed. Arthur’s pouts could be every bit as melodramatic and trying as Morgana’s some days, although Merlin would never tell him so. He does value his own life, on occasion.
When Merlin catches up with him, Arthur has already cooled, glancing over from the corner of his eye.
“Is that why you cover up so much?”
Merlin sighs. “What?”
“It’s blazing out here and you still have that godforsaken neckerchief on. You hardly show an inch of skin.”
“And that displeases you, does it?”
Arthur cuts him a warning look, but it has no heat. All of that is reserved for the blush on the tips of his ears.
How adorable, Merlin thinks, irritated and charmed in equal measure.
“You wish,” Arthur snorts.
In fact, I—
“Are you embarrassed?”
“What?” The question startles Merlin— is he embarrassed? Why should he be embarrassed? What could he have possibly given away?
But as Arthur stares at him, an uncharacteristic vulnerability in his gaze, he realizes he’s talking about the soulmark. Or, as Arthur believes, his lack of one.
The truth is complicated and risky and so damn messy that he isn’t sure what to say, except to agree. It’s the easy answer, delivered to him on a silver platter.
So he says, “Yes.”
Arthur shakes his head, probably about to scold him again, when he suddenly freezes. Merlin freezes, too, on instinct.
“What is it?” Merlin whispers.
Arthur’s face morphs into a false calm—the kind of stoic he only gets when he’s found himself in incredible danger. But his eyes are what worry Merlin: wild, chaotic, desperate.
“Don’t. Move,” he commands, voice dipped low and steady, and it takes everything in Merlin not to turn around. Arthur’s hand slowly inches towards the blade on his hip, gripping the handle ever so slightly and carefully unsheathing it…
A shout rips from Arthur’s throat, and all Merlin registers is the sharp sting of pain and blurring vision before the darkness creeps in, and he collapses.
***
“Merlin!” Arthur cries. “Oh, God, Merlin.”
He races forward and kneels next to Merlin’s crumpled body, the scaly length of a snake, decapitated, resting beside him.
Oh, God, what if it’s poisonous? And then he wants to smack himself, because he can practically hear Merlin’s sarcastic lilt echoing in his head: Of course its poisonous, you dolt, I’m passed out!
Arthur has seen men go down before to venomous creatures, has heard Gaius barking orders at the people around them to keep his patient alive. He remembers something distinctive about swelling, about not letting anything on the body dig into the skin as a result and make things worse. Gaius is not here, so its Arthur who will have to examine the wound and keep Merlin alive until they can get back to Camelot.
Arthur swears; the blasted thing got him right in the neck, which may be the worst possible place to get a snake bite ever, because of course it is. Because this is Merlin, who may have the worst luck Arthur has ever seen, who Arthur can only assume managed to incur the wrath of the gods with his bumbling idiocy.
Arthur pulls at the punctured fabric of Merlin’s neckerchief, hoping to reveal the wound underneath, hoping they have a little more time to ride back to Gaius. When its pulled away and his red, pulsing wound remains, Arthur swallows. Hard.
Merlin lied.
The wound is not the only thing to blemish pale skin.
Merlin lied.
Not only is he Marked— its a mark he’s painfully familiar with. A glittering coin that’s tormented him for years, since the day it appeared stamped onto his own skin. And the face of that coin?
He recognizes it instantly.
The Pendragon crest.
Is he misinterpreting this? Is it possible to misinterpret this?
Merlin moans pitifully under him, turning his head slightly in his discomfort, and he’s sweating buckets now. There’s no time to come to terms with the fact that Merlin is— that he could be—
Merlin is dying. If he doesn’t get him to Gaius soon, Merlin won’t be anything.
So he uses Merlin’s now-dirty neckerchief to pick up the head of the snake and then gently lifts Merlin into his arms. His thoughts are erratic; he can’t grasp onto a single thought long enough to stay coherent, but he registers distantly how much the lightness of Merlin’s body disturbs him. Doesn’t he eat?
He lifts Merlin onto his horse first, holding him as steady as possible before mounting on after him, reaching his left hand around Merlin’s body to grab his reins, then using his right hand to grab the reins of Merlin’s horse.
He’s never had to steer two steeds before with an unconscious man between them, so he hopes to God this works.
***
The first thing Merlin registers upon waking from the dead is Arthur snoring. He hears the heavy, even breaths before even opening his eyes, and if he didn’t think the skin on his lips would tear open at the movement, he would have smiled.
Instead he attempts to blink his eyes open, which is easier said than done through crust and heavy eyelids. One would think he’d get better at this near-death thing, but it just never gets any easier. (It does, however, get more annoying.)
When his eyelids finally do peel open, he blinks away the sleep and slowly, very slowly, pushes himself up into a seated position, surprised not to find Gaius puttering around his chambers.
Arthur startles at his rustling, shooting up straight in his chair. “Merlin!” he rasps, voice filled with sleep.
Merlin raises an eyebrow and tells himself, once more, not to smile.
“No, no, please. Don’t let me wake you. I’m glad you’re so relaxed at the prospect of my death, my lord. Did you have a nice nap?”
Arthur rubs a hand over his face. “No. You kept groaning in your sleep.”
“Apologies,” Merlin drawls, every word saturated with sarcasm. “How inconvenient.”
“Quite.” The retort is immediate, but Merlin can tell his heart isn’t in it. He’s looking at Merlin like he could be a ghost. He supposes he looks like one, after what happened.
Well... “Arthur, what exactly happened?”
“You got bit by a snake. It was quite lethal, I’m told, but we got back in the nick of time. Gaius administered the antidote from the head I brought back to him.”
Merlin furrows his eyebrows and brings a hand up to touch the bandage on his…
Oh, shit. On his neck. Arthur wouldn’t have—surely he didn’t—
No, he probably just brought him straight to Gaius, and Gaius treated him alone. He knows of their situation, after all, and Merlin doesn’t think he’d jeopardize that, considering keeping his soulmark a secret from Arthur was Gaius’s idea in the first place.
Hastily, Merlin grasps the edge of his thin blanket and pulls it up to his chin. “Well, I’m fine now, Arthur, I think I’m going to go back to bed… we’re both tired, you should head up too, I’ll be okay until Gaius gets back and—”
“Shut up, Merlin, and calm down. It’s not good for you to get excited right now.” His words start out harsh, then soften— but not in fondness, like usual… in defeat. It makes Merlin’s heart feel like it’s been ground with Gaius’s pestle.
Before Merlin can speak, he continues. “I’ve already seen it, by the way, so you needn’t be so panicked.”
Merlin’s blood freezes. “What?”
For the first time in a long time Arthur looks really, truly angry. “You didn’t have to lie, you know. I wouldn’t have forced you into anything.”
“Wait, Arthur, that’s not—”
The door swings open to reveal Gaius, carrying fresh cloths, and Gwen trailing with a bucket of water behind him.
Gaius and Gwen start tending to him immediately, and he’s so overwhelmed by the questions and the attention that he doesn’t notice Arthur has left until the door swings shut behind him.
***
It takes him ages to find Arthur. He’s not sure how a prince manages to avoid him for so long after his recovery, but color Merlin impressed. And thoroughly agitated.
He’s pretty sure the whole castle is in on it, too. He asked Morgana if she’d seen Arthur lately and she said nothing, just looked down her nose at him and sashayed past. Gwen stuttered and suddenly heard her name being called (although Merlin was standing right next to her and heard no such thing). Even the knights just looked pityingly at him and shook their heads.
When he finally does find Arthur, he’s hunched over a pint in the tavern. Merlin feels a bit foolish at first for not finding him hours ago, but then he realizes its 4pm on a Tuesday and he’s hunting the Crown Prince, for god’s sake.
“Arthur?”
Arthur tenses immediately, so Merlin knows that he knows he’s there, just refuses to turn around.
“Can we talk?”
Still nothing.
“Look, Arthur, I’m sorry.”
Is he too pissed to function or something? Or worse…in one of his mega-sulks? Merlin truly has no idea how to bring him out of this one if that’s the case.
All he can do is start talking.
“Listen,” he says, sliding into the seat next to him. “It’s not you, alright? It’s… well, for lack of a better phrase: it’s not you, it’s me.”
That gets Arthur to look at him, finally. It’s a look of disgust thrown over his shoulder, and it’s over as quickly as it came, but Merlin considers it a success nonetheless.
“I’m serious. You know about the magic of the soulmark, right? The image printed on your skin is a symbol of the relationship you have together. Its essence.. And if you ever figured out what my part of that symbol truly means… I’m not sure it would matter who it’s attached to.”
When Arthur finally speaks, his words are slow, devoid of emotion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Arthur,” Merlin whispers, desperate for him to understand. He doesn’t care about the repercussions at this point . “Where have you seen gold eyes before?”
Arthur shakes his head. “I haven’t—” He’s cut off by his own sharp gasp. Arthur flings around with wide eyes, and thank god this tavern is completely empty aside from the barkeep because they would be making quite a scene otherwise.
“I couldn’t tell you,” Merlin whispers, desperate for him to understand.
Merlin guesses by the way Arthur shoves past him and out of the tavern that he doesn’t.
***
Merlin is thankful that Arthur is preoccupied with council meetings the next day because between that and his chores he barely gets a chance to see him— meaning, he doesn’t have to deal with the thick, awkward tension between them. But he also hasn’t been captured in the middle of the night and tied to a stake, so he tries to look on the bright side and count his blessings.
But eventually it’s time to bring Arthur his dinner, and they can’t avoid each other forever. So he goes to the kitchen, picks up a plate, and heads to Arthur’s chambers.
When he steps inside, Arthur is already standing behind his desk, but his back is to the door. Merlin longs to know what he gazes at so intensely through that window, feels a sharp pang in his heart when he’s stupid enough to wish it were him.
Merlin gently sets his plate down and inches closer, watching his face in the window’s reflection to judge his reaction, but he doesn’t look mad anymore. Just… devastated. And it’s more than Merlin can take.
Suddenly he stops trying to inch forward; he stops walking on eggshells, stops trying to ease them into their situation. The fact is they’re soulmates. They’re soulmates. And they may have temporarily been dealt a shitty hand, but he knows Arthur— knows his honor and his bravery and his heart. He knows deep down, despite Arthur’s inner turmoil, that Arthur would lay down his life for Merlin; knows that one day Merlin will lay down his for Arthur.
Merlin knows he will love him until the day he dies.
So why are they wasting time?
He lunges forward and wraps his arms around Arthur, squeezing tight around his middle, and he relishes the sweet whoosh that escapes him at the impact.
“M-Merlin,” Arthur squeaks— yes, squeaks— bewildered as all hell. He shifts, attempting to turn out of Merlin’s arms and face him, but Merlin can’t let go. He can’t. He has the awful feeling that if his arms loosen, just a little, he’ll never have the chance to be this close again. He’ll never have Arthur again.
“Just—please,” Merlin says, not caring that he’s begging. He presses his face into Arthur’s shoulder, breathing in the smell of him, a glorious mixture of clove and cedar that digs deep into his chest cavity. For the strangest moment he feels like weeping. “Please.” He presses his lips to the gold markings across his shoulder and neck, firm and reverent.
Arthur gasps sharply, then positively melts in his arms. His entire body sags against Merlin’s and Merlin squeezes him impossibly closer. Kisses him again. A blissful sigh leaves Arthur’s lips.
“That’s not fair,” he murmurs. “No using magic on me.”
Merlin grins against his skin. “I’m not. It’s the bond. Your body likes me.”
Arthur says nothing in response to this, but Merlin kisses the tips of his flushed ears, presses his lips against warm cheeks. “Or maybe it’s just you,” he teases.
Arthur rolls his eyes, but to Merlin’s giddy delight, doesn’t deny it.
“Is that really the only reason you didn’t say anything? Because you didn’t want to out yourself as a sorcerer?”
“Of course.” Merlin furrows his eyebrows, meeting Arthur’s eyes in the window. “Why else?”
Arthur reaches up, as if in a trance, tracing his gold Pendragon crest. Merlin shivers. “It’s a lot of responsibility. Being my soulmate.”
“That doesn’t frighten me.”
“No?”
Merlin can’t help it— he laughs. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”