Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prompts: heyy idk if you still write merlin fics anymore but if you wanted to could you possibly write something where merlin suffers from some kind of physical ailment as a result of repressing his magic. i've read a couple fics with similar concepts and i love your works, so i was wondering if you'd be up to writing something like this? - anon

hiii i have a merlin prompt if you're interested! it would be really cute to see a fic where merlin can see things that other people can't as a result of his magic, and so he just stares off into the distance or just wanders off sometimes and the knights notice and are super confused about it!! - anon

“I can never trust magic, not when it has taken so much from me.”

So Merlin hides his away, buries it so deeply within himself he can forget it was ever there. And there it stays, even as his hands start to slow, to ache, to burn with the pain of loss, mourning for something inherent. 

And then a dragon comes looking for it. 

The first time he sees her, he thinks he’s dreaming. 

He’s in the courtyard, drawing water for Arthur’s bath—really, even though the prat rolls around in the mud every chance he gets with the knights, he doesn’t need that many baths—and shut up, Gwaine, not like that—when a flicker of white catches his eye. 

He glances up. The bucket falls from his hands with a loud clang. 

Aithusa. 

White scales, white wings, the curve of her snout as she turns her head. She settles on the edge of the well and looks at him. Her eyes swirl as a soft chitter emerges from her throat. 

She can talk? She can…wait, what is going on?

“What are you doing,” Merlin hisses, glances around frantically to make sure no one’s noticed her and called for the guards, “you can’t be here! They’re going to hurt you!”

Another woman begins to approach the well and Merlin tenses, mouth opening ready to defend Aithusa or say something—anything—

She gives him a small nod and lowers her bucket into the well, drawing water with nary a glance at the white dragon perched near her elbow. Merlin glances from her to Aithusa and back. The dragon simply shuffles, still looking at him pointedly. The woman finishes drawing the water and bids him good day. Merlin just manages to nod back as Aithusa lifts her head to sniff the air. 

Oh, he realizes faintly, I must be dreaming. 

Yes, now that he looks around, the edges of the world are a little fuzzy. It’s hard to focus on them, his eyes slide right back to Aithusa and what’s in front of him. People are smiling a bit more than they normally would, their voices a tad more muffled. Something keeps him here, near the well, and yes, that’s right. He’s dreaming. He’s dreaming that he can see Aithusa here. 

But why? Why would he dream of her now? He’s dreamed of her before, surely, and his chest aches at the memories of watching her fly off into the darkness only to hear her scream. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, reaching out a hand, “I’m sorry I’ve not taken care of you.”

But she pulls away from his hand and snorts at him. Another jot of pain runs through his fingers and he pulls them back, rubbing absentmindedly. He scoffs. 

“Figures that even when I’m asleep my hands won’t stop hurting,” he mumbles, looking up at Aithusa again, “at least your wings look better.”

She snorts again, before glancing at the well and the bucket. Merlin sighs. 

“I know. I should get back to work.”

Aithusa thumps her front paws on the stone well and glares at him. 

“…what?” He looks dumbly at her. “I can’t—what do you want me to do?”

No amount of pointing and snorting and disappointed looks can convey what she wants, it seems and finally, she takes off in a swirl of wings. Merlin can’t help reaching after her, only for the pain to numb his hand before he can outstretch it. He collapses onto the well, still staring at the sky. 

“Merlin? Merlin!”

He blinks. He looks up. Arthur is coming toward him across the courtyard. He struggles to his feet and dips the bucket into the well. 

“Merlin, what’re you doing? What’s taking you so long?” Arthur puts his hands on his hips. “I had half a mind to send Leon out after you.”

“Maybe if you weren’t so much of a prat, I wouldn’t need so much water to fill your tub.”

He receives a cuff to the head that’s too affectionate to hurt, but he winces anyway when his hands refuse to grip the bucket. Arthur plucks it effortlessly from him, eyes too worried for the glare to work either. 

“I’m making sure you get your exercise.”

“In what, putting up with you?”

Arthur just rolls his eyes and starts back toward the castle. “Perhaps if you worked on your chores as much as you do your wit, I’d run out of things for you to do.”

“Then you’d just make up more things.”

Merlin can’t help glancing over his shoulder at the well. Could he really have fallen asleep there? In the middle of the day, on those hard stone steps, in the middle of his chores. 

He must’ve done, how else would Aithusa have been here?

The second time he sees her, he thinks he’s cursed. 

It’s been a long trip. Merlin lifts his foot from the mud and gears when his boot deigns to remain firmly in the sodden ground. He grunts, his arms out for balance as he wiggles and manages to get his foot back into the boot. Not his most elegant display, certainly. 

When no snickers or quips fly his way, his shoulders slump. They’re all exhausted. Gwaine is struggling with his cloak and brambles a few paces away, Leon is doing his best to get Percival’s wound patched up so they can make it safely through the mud, and Elyan trails after Lancelot with the pile of firewood. 

“I don’t know how much good this is going to be,” he grunts as they finally set it down, “the ground is waterlogged and so is the wood.”

“We need to start a fire,” Arthur reminds, but even his normal pratlyness has dimmed, “even if it’s only a little one.”

Merlin glances at the place they’ve laid the wood. He winces. They’ve done their best to find the driest spot of ground, but it’s still squishing around the wood and the scraps of kindling they’ve managed to drag up from the surrounding foliage look…dubious at best. Lancelot crouches down next to it and tries with the flint and steel. 

“Damn,” he mutters as he stands back up a few minutes later with no success, “guess we’d better find something else.”

His gaze rests on Merlin and unbidden, his hands start to ache again. His cheeks flush and he turns away, fiddling with the straps on the bag instead. He can’t. He knows he can’t. Lancelot knows he can’t. 

But if he doesn’t, this night may turn from miserable to dangerous very, very quickly. 

And a flutter of wings makes his heart almost stop. 

Trying to be as subtle as possible, he turns around, heart in his throat. 

There, perched over the dry stack of wood, is Aithusa. She looks at him, bone-white amidst the decrepit and rotting trees, and rears up, exposing her powerful chest. His breath catches as the knights begin to come toward the campsite. 

No, no, girl, you have to leave, he begs silently, trying to stumble forward, you’re going to get hurt, I won’t be able to stop them, please, don’t do this!

Aithusa pays him no mind—and why would she? What cause does she have to believe in the good in him?—and simply stands proud over the collection of wood. Fear races through Merlin’s veins as he scrabbles for handholds and footholds to reach her before the knights do. 

His hands cry out as he hauls himself upwards, but he doesn’t care. Nor does he care for the salt on his cheeks as he struggles toward her. Aithusa simply watches. 

“Please,” he whispers, “please, girl, you have to go, you’ll be hurt, please!”

Don’t make me watch you die in front of me too.

The sharp sound of a sword against a whetstone. His eyes widen and he lunges forward—

“Merlin?” A pair of hands catch him as he almost stumbles into the firewood. He looks up to see Leon eyeing him in concern. “Careful, now, don’t hurt yourself.”

Where—

Merlin looks around, but there’s no sign of her. No white dragon, no chitters, no rustling of wings. But she was just here, she was so real—

“Merlin,” and that’s Arthur now, “Merlin, look at me.”

Merlin turns, his gaze meeting Arthur’s. He tries to look serious and stern but it falls as he takes in Merlin’s frantic expression. He exchanges a quick glance with Leon before stepping closer. 

“What’s wrong,” he asks, lowering his voice, “did you see something?”

A flash of white out of the corner of his eye and he whips his head around—

No Aithusa. But he does see a broad flat rock, dried out by the last of the day’s sun, that’s big enough to set up a campfire. He points at it with a shaking, aching finger. 

“There,” he mumbles, “we can—it should be dry enough.”

Arthur follows his point, ordering the others to gather the wood and move there as he glances back at Merlin. He reaches out and claps him on the shoulder. 

“Not just for hats, is it?”

“Shows what you know,” he shoots back halfheartedly, “prat.”

“Idiot.”

Leon holds onto him a moment longer before calling his name again. “Are you sure you’re alright? You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

Merlin stops. A ghost…

That’s it. 

He looks down at his hands. A bit grubby and scraped, but nothing that would merit the bone-weary ache seeping through them as he tries to move. He looks up again at the spot where Aithusa had spread her wings, as if daring a knight to run her through. 

He swallows heavily and shakes Leon off, helping to gather the rest of the supplies as Elyan finally gets a fire going. He settles down with his share of dried meat and can’t taste any of it. 

He watches the smoke and thinks he can see wings flapping in the breeze. 

Look, oh mighty warlock, it taunts as it blows itself stinging into his eyes, look at how little you can do, look what good your power has brought you. What good is it? What good are you?

His hands hurt too much to rip any more of the meat. Tears roll down his cheeks as he stares into the blinding smoke. 

“Merlin!”

He turns. Lancelot looks at him, reaching out to pat away his tears with gentle hands. 

“What are you looking at?” He brushes away another. “The smoke isn’t good for your eyes, you know.”

He does know. He says as much. He doesn’t answer the question of what he was looking at. 

He’s learned his lesson about trying to explain curses. 

The third time he sees her, she’s real. 

He’s learned to ignore the flutters of white and the rustling of wings now. The curse of Aithusia is just another burden his shoulders bear, as is the constant ache in his hands as he opens doors, dresses in the morning, lets them hang limply by his sides. The knights are growing worried, he knows, they treat him more gently now, and as much as he wishes he could snap at them that he’s not some fragile flower, he won’t admit that he thrills at the soft way they make sure he has to do as little work as possible when he follows Arthur out to the training grounds. 

Speaking of Arthur, he’s noticed too. He’s made Merlin eat with him in the morning—probably something he went to Gaius about, if Merlin had to guess. He watches Merlin, now, too, not that he ever really stops watching Merlin—yes, he can see him, he’s not nearly as discrete as he thinks he is—but it’s more obvious now. Every so often when Arthur’s working at his desk, Merlin will hear the soft scratchings of the quill cease. And he looks over and Arthur’s just staring at him, an inscrutable expression on his face. 

He dodges the questions when he can, answers as honestly as possible when he can’t. 

But everything gets worn out of him eventually, and he has to collapse on a stone bench in an abandoned courtyard, just to stop for one second. 

And of course, that’s when a shadow falls across him. 

He looks up and barely blinks at the sight of Aithusa in front of him. The dragon snorts, ambling closer, wings tucked close against her sides. His hands twitch with renewed ache. 

“I don’t know what you want,” he murmurs, half-talking to himself, “I don’t know what else I can do.”

She snorts again and nudges at his hands. 

Wait, she nudges his hands?

He blinks, slowly turning his hands palm up, trembling with the strain of it. Aithusa rumbles low in her throat and does it again. He gasps as her tongue slides roughly across his palms. 

The curse must be getting worse if I can actually feel her. 

As if she can hear his thoughts, the dragon stops licking his hands and raises her head, glaring at him, before pressing her snout against his forehead. Her scales are smooth and thrum with her magic and it makes him gasp. 

“Merlin?”

Arthur. That’s Arthur. He should respond. But Aithusa is warm and her magic holds him still and he’s just so tired. 

“Merlin, where—“

The way Arthur’s voice cuts off sharply is enough to make him turn and look. Arthur stares at a spot just over his head. 

“Merlin,” he says with practiced calm, “would you like to explain why there’s a dragon in front of you?”

Wait. 

“You…you can see her too?”

Several expressions flicker across Arthur’s face at once before settling on something that looks like fond exasperations. “Yes, Merlin, I can see her. Have you always had a pet dragon or is this some new stray you’ve decided to take in?”

“She’s not my pet,” Merlin bites out, squeezing his eyes shut, “she’s not—she—“

Aithusa rumbles softly and footsteps come closer. 

“Okay, okay, she’s not your pet,” Arthur’s voice says quietly, “but what is she?”

“She’s real,” Merlin mumbles, “she’s here and she’s real.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“She’s real…”

“So you’ve said.” A note of concern colors Arthur’s voice now. “Is there a reason why she shouldn’t be?”

“She can’t be real, she can’t be here, it’s not safe…” 

“What do you mean, Merlin, what do you mean it isn’t safe?”

“It’s not safe,” he insists stubbornly, “it’ll never be safe here, not for her, not for—“

He claps a hand over his mouth, despite the pain flaring brighter. Aithusa growls, nudging his hand with her snout. Arthur looks between the two of them. 

“Not safe for her? She’s a dragon, Merlin, what do you mean it’s not safe for her?”

Aithusa pays Arthur no mind, instead nudging insistently at Merlin’s hand. Merlin won’t move. He can’t. He almost ruined everything. He won’t ruin it, not now.

But then strong and sure fingers are prying his hand away from his mouth and more grab his chin and turn it. 

“Why isn’t it safe,” Arthur asks, his voice barely above a whisper, “why not?”

“She’s magic.” He swallows heavily. “She’s magic, Arthur.”

He spares a glance at the dragon. “Yes, and in the time she’s been here, all she’s done is lick your hands and rest her head against yours. Hardly the most dangerous thing in the world to me.”

As if in agreement, Aithusa nudges Merlin’s hands again. He winces at the jostling of his already aching hands and Arthur sighs. 

“Your hands still hurt, then?”

Merlin’s head snaps up. “You knew?”

“Merlin, I’ve seen you do far more work than any servant should be able to do without complaints, and then all of a sudden you couldn’t lift a nightshirt without wincing. Yes, I noticed.”

Aithusa growls again, nudging his hands insistently. 

“Gaius said you hadn’t said anything, so out with it. What happened?”

“Nothing,” Merlin says immediately, much to the disbelief of both the dragon and Arthur, “I didn’t do anything.”

As those words leave his mouth, Aithusa suddenly pushes her head hard against his hands. 

He gasps. 

Magic, his magic, the magic he buried so deep he didn’t think he would ever have the compulsion to reach for it again, surges to the surface as her magic reaches deep into his hands. The world glows gold for a moment before he blinks awake, finding himself slumped against Arthur with a dragon’s head purring in his lap. 

The pain is gone. 

“W-what—“

“Oh, you idiot,” Arthur breathes from next to him, “did you try to repress your magic?”

What? 

Wait, what?

“Yes, I know you have magic,” Arthur says irritably, “you weren’t the best at hiding it, you know. The knights know too, even though I suspect you told at least some of them. That’s why your hands have been hurting, you absolute buffoon!”

Merlin just blinks helplessly up at him.

“Oh, Merlin, you are useless sometimes.”

“But—your father—the ban—“

“But you, and the knights, and the dragon,” Arthur responds, still holding him as he scolds him, “she’s probably just as cross as I am, isn’t she? That you’ve been repressing your magic like an idiot?”

Aithusa snuffles in agreement and Merlin is so, so confused. 

Arthur just sighs, gaze softening as he cups Merlin’s face. 

“You’re a sorcerer,” he says quietly, “you’re an idiot, and you need to never do that ever again. You’re hurting yourself.”

“B-but—why aren’t you mad?”

“I am mad,” Arthur says, “I’m furious at how much you’ve hurt yourself for no good reason.”

“No good—“ Merlin struggles away from him— “I live in Camelot! I’m a sorcerer who lives in a place where magic is illegal!”

“And you used to flaunt that with every chance you got,” Arthur responds, “until something changed. What was it?”

“You wanted it to!”

Arthur freezes. 

Merlin presses his lips tightly together and turns away. He hunches his shoulders. “You…you hate magic. You told me you did. So…so…”

“Oh, Merlin,” he hears from behind him, “out of all the times you chose to listen to me…”

“I listen to you.”

“Not enough, it seems.” And there are warm arms around him that guide him back to a strong chest and a dragon’s snuffle. “Can we talk about this later?”

“Not if you’re going to execute me.”

“I could never.” Arthur holds him firmly. “I could never.”

Aithusa’s head bumps their shoulders. 

“I think your dragon would hunt me down if I tried.” A snort of approval and Arthur’s chuckle. “See? It’s safe.”

He doesn’t want to believe it. He can’t believe it. It’s not—it can’t be real. It can’t be. Not like this. 

But then Aithusa laps at his hands again and—and—

Oh. 

Oh. 

With trembling hands, he reaches out and lets a soft golden glow dance along the scales of the dragon’s snout. She purrs under the attention and his magic surges. 

“There you are,” Arthur mumbles as Merlin’s magic runs free for the first time in too long, “I missed you.”

Chapter Text

Prompt: I know many people see the magic in Merlin to be a metaphor for queerness (and i totally do as well). this, however, is me humbly requesting magic used as disability. Specifically a chronic illness.

Maybe magic causes chronic pain for Merlin as a default and he has to expend magic daily to release that pain (which means it gets worse when he gets to Camelot because he's always busy AND near people). Along with the great disability metaphor/actually disability causing magic it'd be cool if there was some platonic or romantic merlin arthur hurt/comfort. 

I love your work <3 <3 <3 - anon

It only takes a few moments of Merlin struggling to do up the bed for Arthur to sigh and set his quill aside. 

“Merlin, come here.”

“In a moment, you prat, I’m busy.”

“Oh? Do the sheets need to be fumbled a dozen times before you can put them on properly?”

“How would you know, you’ve never changed sheets in your life.”

Arthur huffs. “I’ll have you know I have changed the sheets before.”

“Mhm.”

“I have!”

“Of course, sire. Whatever you say, sire.”

“Merlin,” Arthur groans, getting up from the desk and sitting on the bed, effectively preventing him from doing any more fumbling, “why aren’t you listening to me?”

Merlin glares at him. “I am listening to you. I’m responding, aren’t I?”

“You’re hearing what I’m saying, that doesn’t mean you’re listening.”

“What exactly do you think listening means?”

“Merlin!”

Merlin hides a snicker in his laundry basket before walking around to the other side to continue his fumbling. Arthur sighs and leans back, sprawling over the bedsheets and blinking at an upside-down Merlin. 

“Look, if you don’t want to sleep on clean sheets, that’s fine with me—“

“Your hands are hurting again.”

His soft words cut Merlin off mid-insult. His mouth opens and closes a few times, which looks very funny upside down, before he sets it into a grim line and turns away. “It’s fine.”

“Merlin.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll just do the sheets later if you want to have a nap.”

“Merlin.”

“Look, some of us actually have chores to do that no one else will, so if you’ll excuse me—“

“Merlin,” Arthur calls in a soft voice, standing up and walking toward him, “come here, please.”

“Oh, so he says ‘please’ when he wants to,” Merlin grumbles but his hands are shaking as Arthur nears, “news to me.”

Arthur just waits. He’s done all he can, now it’s up to Merlin. His chest feels tight as he watches Merlin’s fingers twitch, his shoulders tense, until his head drops back and he groans. 

“Oh, fine,” he mutters, turning around with his head still bowed low as he walks back to Arthur, “happy?”

“Will you look at me?”

“Is that an order, sire?”

“No,” Arthur says, still softly, because Merlin is like any other wounded animal and he mustn’t tease, mustn’t poke and prod at the sore spots where he’s tender, “it’s not an order.”

Merlin huffs unhappily. “What do you want, then?”

Arthur swallows, reaching out slowly, giving Merlin enough time to pull away. Even with his head bowed, he can see the line of Merlin’s jaw tense as his fingers get close enough to brush Merlin’s hands. 

“Can I help,” he asks in a near-whisper, “please?”

Another huff, probably meant to be some fantastic quip—don’t worry, Merlin, I’m sure it was a winner—but that comes out more like a sob. “Why?”

“You’re hurting worse today,” Arthur says, only approaching the silence Merlin’s set, not to break it, “I want to help.”

Merlin does raise his head at that. Jerks it up, staring at Arthur. He keeps his expression open, more open than he has in years, hoping that the silent pleas of let me help, let me help, let me help read clear enough on his face. 

Merlin must come away satisfied—or at least assured that Arthur’s not going to try and hurt him—because he huffs and holds his hands out for Arthur to inspect. Arthur takes them as gently as he can, noting when Merlin hisses through his teeth and carefully cupping one in his own. 

“How long have they been hurting you,” he murmurs, lightly stroking the skin with his thumb, “has it been all day?”

Merlin mutters something. 

“What’s that?”

“They hurt every day, Arthur.”

Arthur’s movements stutter. “Every day?”

Merlin glares at him but not with anger. “Yes, you prat. I live in Camelot, of course my hands hurt every day.”

Right. Right. Arthur mustn’t forget where they are and what this is like for Merlin. “Right, sorry.”

Merlin shakes his head, mouth twisting. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” he corrects gently, “you’re hurting and I want to help. So I need to remember.”

He takes Merlin’s elbows and gently tugs him toward the bed. 

“Doing magic makes it help, doesn’t it?”

“…a little.” Merlin eyes the bed wearily. “But not—I don’t know if I can—“

“I’m not asking you to do anything you aren’t comfortable with,” Arthur interrupts, “but if—if you try to make the bed with magic, would that work?”

“Is all this just to get me to do your chores?” Merlin glances up at catches sight of Arthur’s expression and he blinks. “…you know it’s a lot less fun to insult you when you look at me like that.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything, just strokes the back of Merlin’s hand gently. Merlin sighs. 

“Fine, fine, I’ll—I’ll try.”

“Thank you.”

Merlin raises his hand. He stares at the bed. Arthur looks too, waiting for the sheets to magically un-wrinkle, the covers to spread over the mattress, the pillows to straighten, but nothing happens. He glances over and Merlin’s outstretched hand is trembling. Violently. 

Then he gasps and Arthur flies to steady him, coax him down onto the edge of the bed as he clutches his hands to his chest, shoulders heaving. 

“I can’t,” he gasps, “I can’t, it’s too big, it’s too much, I—“

“Shh, shh,” Arthur soothes, a hand rubbing circles between his shoulder blades, “it’s alright. It’s alright, Merlin, it’s alright.”

“It’s too big of a spell, I can’t—it hurts—“

“Shh, Merlin, come here.” He coaxes Merlin closer, his head on his shoulder. “That’s it...give it a moment. You’re safe, you’re safe, you’re alright. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Shuddering breaths puff against his collar. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“If I—I can’t—if something happens and I can’t—“ he can feel the roll of Merlin’s throat— “if I can’t protect you—“

That tugs at one too many strings in Arthur’s chest and he caves to the instinct to cup Merlin’s face, tipping his chin up and letting out a soft noise at the evidence of tears. “Don’t worry about that right now,” he murmurs, brushing them away, “I’m alright. I have knights aplenty and the castle is safe. You don’t have to carry the weight of Camelot on your shoulders.”

Merlin’s mouth tightens stubbornly as if to say yes, I do.

“You don’t,” Arthur insists, lightly scruffing his knuckles along the side of Merlin’s face, “one man is not enough to protect an entire kingdom, no matter how great.”

A watery smirk. “You think I’m great?”

Arthur rolls his eyes fondly but leans forward to rest their heads together. “Yes, Merlin, I do. And I think you’re a great idiot too.”

“Oi,” Merlin mumbles, lightly swatting Arthur’s chest, “you’re the great prat.”

Arthur just chuckles. Merlin’s hand rests there on his chest for a little longer, just over his heart, until Arthur reaches up and covers it with his own. 

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Will you sit with me?” Merlin looks up. “Just—just for a moment?”

Arthur smiles. “Of course.”

The courtyard outside bustles with carts and horses. Footsteps occasionally pass by the door. The wind rustles the tapestries on the wall, the sun slanting through the window onto the sheets of paper piled up on Arthur’s desk. 

Merlin’s hand is trembling under his. He tries not to push too hard, just enough so Merlin can feel he’s there. Merlin tucks his head into the crook of Arthur’s neck, his nose cold. Arthur closes his eyes and breathes, trying to slow his heartbeat. 

“…Arthur?”

“Mm?”

Merlin’s fingers wiggle slightly. “I, er, I’m sorry.”

“Merlin, what on earth do you have to be sorry for?”

Merlin shifts a little. “…still being scared?”

“No, Merlin,” Arthur says, pulling back a bit to see Merlin’s face, “you’re in Camelot as a sorcerer who’s seen—god, I don’t even know how much, and you’re right by my side which means you were near my father and you had to listen to me being an arrogant asshole—“

Merlin snickers.

“—so no, Merlin, you don’t need to apologize for being scared. You never have to.”

“…if I do, does that mean I get to hear you admit to being an arrogant asshole again?”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, aiming for a chide and missing by a few leagues to end up at a plea. 

“Alright, alright, you big sap.” But then he’s shuffling closer again and hiding a red face in the crook of Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur chuckles. He gently, gently squeezes Merlin’s hand. “Is there anything else I can do to help?”

Merlin shifts a little. “The idea you had…’bout doing magic to help with my hands. Wasn’t awful.”

“Maybe just something a little smaller, yeah?”

“Mhm.”

Arthur glances around. He spots a wrinkled handkerchief on the nightstand. He nudges Merlin, nodding to it. “Could you bring us that?”

Merlin turns to look at it and his hand tenses for a moment. In the next, the handkerchief flings itself across the room and into Arthur’s lap. 

“Thank you.” He cards his fingers through Merlin’s hair. “What about smoothing it out?”

“If you didn’t crumple them up in your pockets all the time, it wouldn’t get so bad.” But then Merlin’s reaching out with shaking fingers and touching the fabric. It smooths. “That’s better.”

“Yes,” Arthur agrees, feeling the way Merlin’s hands are stilling, “yes, it is.”

“Are you going to ask me to change the color next or something?”

“You can do that?”

Merlin shifts. “Not right now. That’s still…big.”

“Has the pain gotten any better?”

“A bit, yeah.”

Arthur glances around. He doesn’t want to make Merlin do anything that he’ll have to undo later, so the options are…limited. “What else is small?”

Merlin’s head knocks against his chin. “Er, heating water isn’t that big…fire isn’t that big—well—sometimes it is, mostly it isn’t. Making shapes in it, that sort of thing.”

“I can light a candle.”

“’S not big enough.”

Before they can brainstorm any more things, there’s a soft crash at the window. They turn and Arthur laughs in surprise when the white dragon pokes her head through. Merlin sits up sharply, eyes widening. 

“Aithusa, you can’t be here, what if someone sees?” He’s up and racing to the window as the dragon awkwardly clambers in. “You—it’s not safe—“

“Merlin,” Arthur calls just as Aithusa rumbles soothingly, “it’s alright. She’s not hurt, she’s in here now, you’re both safe.”

The dragon takes Merlin’s tunic gently between her teeth, tugging him over to the bed. Merlin follows on stumbling feet until Arthur can open his arms and catch him, coaxing him to lean back against the headboard. Aithusa snuffles, flopping down on the bed too, her head effectively pinning Merlin at Arthur’s side. 

“She must’ve felt you being an idiot again,” Arthur murmurs, too soft to be anything other than a gentle tease, “and come to help.”

Merlin’s hands settle on her scales and little bits of gold begin to gleam underneath. He lets out a shaky breath. 

“Is that small enough?”

“Yes—yes, this is…” He swallows, his voice suddenly thick with tears. “It’s small.”

“Good.” Arthur slings an arm over his shoulders, coaxing Merlin’s head back to his shoulder. “Why don’t you rest, then, and let your magic out?”

Merlin moves just enough to look up at him with wide eyes. Arthur smiles, pushing his hair back from his face. 

“It’s alright, Merlin,” he murmurs, “you’re safe now.”

The dragon’s head is a warm and heavy weight and it seems to be doing wonders to help Merlin relax. Her tongue flicks out and laps at Arthur’s fingers until he gives in and pets her snout too. She rumbles in contentment as Merlin begins to stroke her scales, leaving little sparkling trails in his wake. 

“That’s it,” Arthur murmurs, “there you are.”

“…Arthur?”

“Mm?”

“…thanks.”

“Of course, Merlin. You know I’d do anything for you.”

“Will you make your own bed?”

“Let’s not get carried away.”

Chapter Text

Prompts:  Ohhhh I'd love love love a magical exhaustsion resulting in just severe soreness Merlin fic if you wanna - anon

Hello! I adore your fics they scratch an itch in my brain. Feel free to ignore this prompt, but: Merlin being magic incarnate making his senses extremely heightened, including touch; he learns to suppress all his senses until they’re duller than an average persons, which minimizes the pain from his adventures but leaves him very numb and extremely touch starved as being touched when his senses are dulled feels like nothing; queue Arthur(+maybe the knights?) finding out about this - anon

I've been re reading the merlin fics and I wanted to request something but all I can think of is Arthur's my Merlin like I am so soft for them you do not understand  - anon

Arthur walks into his chambers to see Merlin collapsed face-first on the bed and instantly panics. 

“Merlin,” he calls, hurrying over, fully prepared to holler for Gaius, for the knights, anyone, “Merlin, are you alright?”

Merlin’s eyelids flutter and his head twitches, eyes just barely opening as Arthur leans over him. “‘rthur?”

“Yes, Merlin, it’s me, I’m right here.” No obvious injuries, doesn’t appear to be anything else wrong… “Can you tell me what’s the matter?”

“Tried to make the bed…” He shifts a little. “Got…got sore.”

“You got sore? Is—is it your magic again?”

Merlin mumbles into the pillow and Arthur bites back a curse. 

“Merlin, can I—can I flip you over?”

“What?”

“I want to be able to hear you, and you’re talking more to the blankets than to me. Can I turn you over? I’ll be careful.”

Merlin snuffles into the bedspread—adorable—and nods. Arthur takes a deep breath and carefully works his hands under Merlin’s torso and rolls him over, reaching up to cradle his head to ensure it comes back down softly. He then kneels down and takes his boots off, adjusting him so he’s laying on the bed properly. 

Merlin blinks up at him when he moves to sit on the edge of the bed so he won’t strain his neck. “Did you take my boots off?”

“You’re not lying in my bed in your boots, Merlin.”

“’S not the first time.”

“Not the—Merlin, have you been sleeping in my bed with your shoes on?”

It’s almost worth it for the small smile that comes to Merlin’s face as Arthur splutters indignantly. Almost. 

“Alright—aside from that,” Arthur huffs, shaking his head, “can you tell me what you said?”

“Huh?”

“When I asked you if it was your magic again, you said something I couldn’t hear, what was it?”

Merlin lets out a long breath, his chest deflating. “’S…’s not really the…same thing.”

“So you’re not repressing your magic and it’s not hurting you?”

His arm twitches as though he’s about to weakly smack him—don’t worry, Merlin, I’m sure it would’ve been a good one—and he huffs. “’S not the same thing.”

“So what is it, then?” 

“’S…’s different.”

Arthur resists the urge to snap. He takes his own deep breath and leans down, carefully brushing Merlin’s hair back from his face. 

“I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what’s wrong,” he murmurs, trying to make himself sound as earnest and sincere as possible, “let me help you.”

Merlin blinks up at him, eyes still heavy, before he swallows. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“It’s—’s—you have to stop,” he mumbles,” can’—can’t think with your hand on me.”

Arthur’s hand flies away so quickly it’s like he burned it.

“N-no, I—“ Merlin shudders again. “Sorry. ‘urts a lot.”

“Take your time. It’s alright.”

He takes another moment to gather himself before he’s looking back up at Arthur properly. “Magic makes me feel. A lot. All the time. Too much, sometimes.”

Arthur nods. Merlin bites his lip. 

“So…so I make it…feel less.”

“What do you mean, ‘make it feel less?’”

“Like…I make it so I feel it less.”

“Merlin, unless you’re trying to tell me that you repress all of your senses, then…” Arthur trails off when Merlin’s head bobbles in a nod. “…you—that is what you’re trying to tell me?”

“For quests, I have to make it hurt less. Then here I can’t—magic is—you know that bit.”

Yes. That bit. 

‘That bit’ being that Merlin is in an environment so hostile to his every existence that he’s forced to repress such an integral part of himself that it causes him pain. That he’s so terrified to just be around Arthur, the knights, around Camelot that he’s constantly aware of it, constantly about to be executed. 

‘That bit,’ indeed. 

But this…

“So…so you’re saying that you—you repress everything? Sight, smell, hearing, taste, even touch? Truly everything?”

“Not all the way. ’S like putting blinders on a horse.”

“Merlin…”

“What?”

Arthur almost scoffs. ‘What,’ he says, like he’s supposed to compare himself to a—a mere service than who he really is, and I’m not supposed to be upset by it? “I—how do I help?”

Merlin shifts a little, expression pulling as the pain must shift too. “Normally…normally Aithusa helps. But she’s busy today so I…thought I could…”

Thought I could go without, goes unsaid but Arthur hears it perfectly well. 

“What does she do?”

“Just, er…” A pretty little flush comes to Merlin’s cheeks. “…touches me.”

“Well, I’m not magic, but I can touch you.”

The flush darkens. “Arthur!”

“Oh, not like that, Merlin—well—alright, I’m being mean,” he chuckles when Merlin scowls up at him, “I’m serious, though. If…if touch is what you need, you can have it from me.”

The scowl morphs into something still suspicious, but a tad more hopeful. “Really?”

“Really.” He smiles, shucking off his own boots and leaning up. “I can be your dragon today.”

Please, Merlin, let me help. Let me help you.

Merlin looks at him a moment longer before he dips his head in a shaky nod. Arthur smiles and lifts his hands, waiting. 

“What should I do? What does the dragon normally do?”

“W-well, she, er…kind of…lies on top of me? But you don’t have to—“

But Arthur’s already moving, careful of his weight and limbs, to rest gently on top of Merlin, smiling a little at his surprised little face. “Alright?”

“…you’re heavy.”

“If you’re about to tell me I weigh more than a dragon—“

“No, no, ’s good. In this case.”

He gently swats Merlin’s shoulder in retaliation. “Is this it, then?”

“Er—that’s all you have to do if you want to.”

“Not what I asked,” he corrects softly, “what else do you need?”

“Well—er—I—“

At the sound of his somewhat frantic babbling, Arthur leans up to look him in the eye. “I’m here to help, Merlin, you can ask for what you need. But if you’re not comfortable, then that’s alright too.”

“…she licks my hands, Arthur.”

“Ah.” He chuckles. “Well, no, I’m not doing that.”

“Figured.”

“But I can kiss them.”

“You—what?”

“Merlin,” he says softly, reaching up to cradle one of Merlin’s hands in his, “can I kiss your hands?”

“Y-yes? But Arthur, you really don’t—don’t—oh.”

For Arthur had carefully brought Merlin’s hand up to his mouth and kissed the back of it, then turned it over to kiss the palm. He presses kisses gently to each of his fingertips, stroking the rest with his thumb. Then he reaches for the other to give it the same treatment, looking up at Merlin when he’s finished. 

“What else?”

“I…er…my neck.”

“Your neck?” Arthur leans down. “Should I kiss you here too?”

“Arthur, you don’t have to do this,” Merlin almost pleads, “it—just lying on top of me is fine.”

“How many times am I going to have to say it,” he murmurs, soft tone taking all the bite from the words, “I want to help you. Let me help you.”

“This is more than just helping me.”

“Oh? Then what is it?”

“This is—this is—“

“What?”

Merlin just stares up at him. There’s a strange fear on his face that makes Arthur stop, propping himself up to look at Merlin properly. 

“What is it,” he asks gently, “am I being too much?”

“N-no, I just—I—“ 

To his dismay, tears begin to well up in Merlin’s eyes. 

“Oh, hey, hey,” he croons, cupping Merlin’s face in his hands and wiping away the tears, “don’t cry, sweetheart, don’t cry.”

This just makes Merlin sob harder. 

“Shh, shh, oh, Merlin, you big baby…” He leans down and rests their foreheads together. “Tell me, tell me what’s wrong. Is it hurting more? Am I making it worse?”

Merlin’s hands come up to clutch weakly at his sleeves and tug. Arthur obeys, laying down a little more so Merlin can feel the press of his weight. 

“You’ve got me. See? I’m right here. You got me.”

“’S so much,” Merlin sobs, “so much an’ so good an’ I—I want it.”

Arthur feels the relieved smile spread across his face, breath shuddering out alongside Merlin’s. “Okay. Okay, I want it too. That’s okay. I’m here. I’m right here.”

He leans down to kiss Merlin’s neck, careful, careful, always careful. Merlin just clings to him as tight as he can—which is admittedly not all that tight, not when his hands are so sore. Arthur pushes up into the touch whenever he feels it, a silent reward for asking for what he needs. 

“’S so warm,” Merlin’s throat rumbles against his lips, “you’re so—you’re so warm.”

Arthur chuckles. “You going to steal my body heat?”

“Yes. Selfish prick, you are.”

“That’s me.” He drags his lips up and over the curve of Merlin’s jaw, ending at his cheek. “A selfish prick.”

Merlin sniffles. “Least you know it.”

He smiles, letting his nose brush Merlin’s temple. He shifts his weight just a little, just to ensure he’s not crushing the man beneath him, before he softly presses his lips to the very corner of Merlin’s mouth. 

Merlin goes still. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, pulling away, “sorry, should’ve asked.”

“…I didn’t mind.”

“Huh?”

“Didn’t mind.” Merlin looks up at him. “Could do it again, if you wanted.”

A surge of hope in Arthur’s chest. “Aithusa do that for you too?”

“No, just you.” Merlin tilts his head. “Please?”

Oh, Merlin, I will never tell you how little I can refuse you if you say please. 

And Arthur’s all too happy to lean down and seal their mouths together, smiling as he feels the familiar tingle of Merlin’s magic as he starts to kiss back. 

There you are, he thinks, I’ve missed you.