Chapter Text
Merlin was young when he came to realise that his soulmate was either really clumsy or lived a chaotic existence. Aches and pains popped up often, and once, the sting of an injury was so great that he accepted it onto himself without thinking. All he could rationalise was that he didn’t want his soulmate to hurt so much, and within seconds a wound opened up on his thigh; a great gash the length of his hand that his mother had to stitch.
She had chided him, “You mustn’t accept their injuries without knowing what it is! What if it was a fatal blow!” Hunith had been angry at him for all of thirty minutes as she’d cleaned the wound. But once it was wrapped, she had deflated and instead looked sad, “You’re too good, Merlin.”
His study of healing magic had started as a mild interest, but as the years progressed and so did the regularity and severity of injury, it became a necessity. He almost always felt stiffness in his joints, and despite his mother’s warnings, he came to accept the injuries onto himself more often than not. Why let the person he was destined to love suffer through the healing process when he can transfer the pain to himself and fix it with magic? It seemed silly not to. He made sure to hide that fact from Hunith, though.
The reverse only happened once; Merlin had burnt himself by accident on the scalding metal of the hearth grate, jerking his hand back instinctually. But it was too late, and a red, angry blister began forming along the side of his thumb. He quickly submerged the burn in a bucket of cold water, wincing at the way it stung. As he removed his hand to inspect the damage, he watched the blister shrink before his very eyes. The red receded back into his normal skin tone, and within moments it was good as new. There was a dull throb in the space where it was, surely an echo of the pain his soulmate now felt as they wore his burn.
He swallowed; chest full at the realisation that his soulmate cared. Maybe it was their way of saying thank you for the many times he had taken away their pain. He was a bit perturbed; he could have easily healed himself if he’d been given the chance. Merlin rubbed his hand over the soul mark on his chest, trying to call on the connection to bring him back the injury so he could deal with it, but nothing happened.
That evening his mother explained that things could only be transferred once. He inspected his thumb with awe, and he vowed to be as careful as he could so that they never had to hurt for him. The spirits gave him his magic for a reason, he was sure of it. And maybe a part of that was to heal and soothe the person who would one day mean the world to him.
Now, years later, and in the heart of Camelot, he feels a different kind of pain – one his soulmate surely cannot feel, and if they can, they aren’t doing anything about it.
The previous week had been hectic, thrown into a new place, new people, and worst of all, thrown into a job he had no interest in. Gaius had warned him away from the royal family due to their hatred of magic, yet here he is, shunted into the role of Manservant to the Prince all because he had the misfortune of saving Arthur’s life, not that he seems too thrilled about it either.
“Stop trying to undress me!” Arthur yells, batting his hands away as he tries to undo the ties holding the tunic closed.
Merlin glares as he digs his feet into the ground, “It’s not like I want to see you naked! The matron said this was part of the job!” He huffs as the prince disregards him entirely and rushes behind the changing screen, nightclothes in hand.
“Yeah, well, you’re not exactly here because of your expertise. Try not to steal anything.” Is the grumbled reply he gets. A small snippet of personal satisfaction comes along when Arthur swears under his breath and the tunic gets shucked over the privacy screen in a tangled mess, “I would fire you in a heartbeat if I could.”
Merlin sighs, “Believe me, I’m as upset as you are – I’m not interested in working for a prat.” He picks up the discarded garment and tries to untangle it. How has he done this? One sleeve is shoved through the other, and the cords twist together in a confusing jumble.
A guffaw reaches his ears and a pair of trousers hit the back of Merlin’s head, “You’re meant to be honoured, not everyone gets the opportunity to work for the prince.” His voice is petulant, parroting off some justification given to him by his father.
Merlin adds the trousers to the tunic in the hamper, “Honoured? Oh yes, when I was a boy, I dreamed of being yelled at and cleaning dirty britches.”
Arthur storms back into view, now shirtless and wearing simple linen trousers, and points right at Merlin’s face, “I don’t like your attitude.”
“My attitude?” Merlin can’t help but raise an eyebrow. This guy is hot and cold, doesn’t want to be seen bare and then throws that notion away as soon as he’s annoyed.
“Yes, Merlin, you’re rude and, and…” His eyes search Merlin’s face as he struggles through the insult, “And disobedient!” Merlin rolls his eyes, taking in the irritation framing the prince. He’s all bunched up, his shoulders tight as he tries to stand tall; Merlin admits, he’s fit and well-toned, but right now he’s just clenching is fists at his sides. As Merlin goes to make a comment on his now-half-nakedness, he can’t help but notice the black smudge on Arthur’s chest. He narrows his eyes, surely, he’s mistaken…
And in that moment a whoosh of air escapes Merlin like he’s been winded. No, I refuse…
Stamped neatly over Arthur’s heart is a suspiciously familiar image, a sprig of thyme, lavender, and sage, tied neatly with a ribbon. Arthur freezes when he sees the track of Merlin gaze, and immediately his previously annoyed expression morphs into one of embarrassment and anger.
“Your soul mark…” Merlin begins, his hand involuntarily reaching out to touch. But his hand is slapped away, and with that he is snapped back into the moment. The moment where he stands before his aggravating, prattish, dollophead of a master, who happens to wear Merlin’s soul mark as if it were his own. Well, it is his own. And that’s where Merlin’s head gets stuck. Because there is no way that this man-child is his soulmate.
“Get out of here! It’s none of your business.” He takes Merlin by the shoulders and forcefully turns him around.
“But-” Merlin stammers, though he isn’t sure what he wants to say, if anything. In just a second, he’s shoved from the room and the door slams behind him. The clamour of wood against stone echoes through the hallway and ebbs into silence, two guards on either side of the doorway look at him with curious expressions. He ducks his head, already feeling the way his cheeks heat up, and is quick to trudge past them.
With his mind in another place, he wanders into Gaius’ chambers; the old man has kindly offered him the room in the back. He’d only met Gaius a few times prior to coming to Camelot, he’d visited Ealdor a handful of times and knows his mother well. He’s grateful for the familiar face, though is still trying to awkwardly settle into his new home
With a resolute shake of his head, he sits beside Gaius as he grinds something in a crucible. Merlin wants to learn as much as he can. With any luck he can transition fully from manservant to physician’s apprentice, and then he can forget about this whole ordeal.
“Good evening, Merlin. How was your first proper day? You must be tired.” He smiles softly, “There’s some food left in the pot for you.” He nods towards the fireplace.
With tired bones, Merlin rises once more from the bench to fetch some food. Although he was hungry just an hour ago, he currently sits with a ball in his stomach, and he stares at the stew in his bowl.
Gaius notices his silence and presses, “Are you alright? You’ve never turned down a meal.” He puts his work down and pushes it to the side, turning to face his student.
Merlin frowns, he isn’t entirely sure how he feels right now, “Arthur is the worst. I don’t know how I’m going to work for him.”
The physician smirks, “He grows on you; he just takes a while to warm to new folk. I promise, you’ll settle.” Merlin presses his lips together in a thin smile. He isn’t so sure about that.
He rubs his chest nervously.
Uncomfortable and tired, he shoves his uncertainty down and rushes through eating. He just wants to sleep. He makes sure to ask after Gaius’ day and makes small talk about the patients that came in while he was gone. He’s got a lot of names to remember if he wants to help with rounds soon.
He washes up his bowl and tucks it away in the cupboard. With a final goodnight, Merlin closes the door to his room behind him.
The simple room is more than he’s ever had. His cot in Ealdor also functioned as a seat when they had guests, and it shared space with the dining table. Being able to stretch his arms in both directions and not touch a wall is novel, and he is grateful.
He kicks off his shoes and dumps his clothes in the corner, taking a second to inspect his reflection in the smudgy and worn mirror above the wash basin. He traces the leaves of his mark and sighs. He’s always felt an affinity to it, herbal tinctures, and druidic inspiration. But now… He blanches. Merlin is struggling to catch his mind up with the notion that the prince of Camelot shares his mark, that Fate has shoved them together and seemingly has great plans for them. But Fate makes mistakes, right?
Merlin always dreamt of a kind soul that would listen to his rambling stories with amusement and love, a person that would hold his hand and walk with him along the river. He tries to imagine Arthur doing those things and the image falls short.
No, Fate must be wrong. It’s laughable.
The nausea that bubbles in his stomach doesn’t ease as he gets into his nightclothes and dips under the covers. He rubs his fingers along his thumb. Curling around his pillow, he tries his best to ignore the way his heart skips.
~~~
He learns two things in the following month; Arthur is a fool who puts himself in the line of danger too often, and that Merlin must protect his mark diligently. He isn’t sure what it is about the people of Camelot, but they’re nosy.
Within days of meeting Gwen, she’d already shown him her mark, a dove resting on her shoulder, and asked to see his. She was shaken when he refused.
“But don’t you want to find your soulmate?” She asked, genuinely concerned at the notion of his disinterest, “What if I know who they are?”
Merlin wasn’t sure how to respond. His whole life had felt like a countdown to the moment he’d fall in love, and it was disappointing to find that destiny could be wrong. So instead, he shrugged, “I already found them and it’s impossible, so I’d rather forget about it.” It was all he was willing to say. Lots of people never find their match, and many more marry despite what their marks say; so, he’s accepted that’s what will end up happening to him.
Arthur sits with his father and Morgana as they have dinner. Merlin stands with Gwen to the side, filling up goblets and removing plates as needed.
A question has been bugging Merlin since he arrived, and, finally stealing himself, he leans slightly to whisper, “Why a dragon?” He eyes one of the many tapestries hanging the walls, the gold creature all but stares back at him.
“It’s Uther’s soul mark – Ygraine had the same one. When their families united, they changed the Camelot banner to reflect that bond. Isn’t it romantic?” Gwen says quietly, clutching her mark through her sleeve. Merlin furrows his brow. Doesn’t Uther see the irony of having a magical beast as not only the Camelot livery, but also his very own mark?
Merlin feels a twinge in his shoulder as Arthur leans forward to grip his cup. The training that morning had been brutal and unforgiving; there was little Merlin could do but hold his breath every time Arthur was struck by an opponent or dropped to the ground. While the pain he felt was a mere shadow of the real thing, it was enough to leave him sweating by the time it was done.
He watches how Arthur winces as he moves, and there’s a small voice in his head that asks him to take pity on the man. So far, he’s resolutely ignored the injuries incurred by his supposed soulmate, because why would he inconvenience himself for a royal ass?
Watching Arthur now, though, his heart mumbles a truth that Merlin’s done his best to mute. You were born to help people, and here you can – Don’t let your pride get in the way of what’s right.
From the shadow of the alcove, Merlin sighs, switching the jug to his left hand. He’s going to regret this, but he can’t help himself. He relaxes his stance and lets a single thought and conviction run through him; I’ll take his pain.
Arthur sits up straight immediately, and Merlin bites his lip to stop a gasp escaping his throat. His shoulder is in agony, how was Arthur just sitting there with this? He must have pulled something while out on the field, why didn’t he go to Gaius? Merlin has half the mind to tell him off, but clamps down on that as he does his best to stand still.
Morgana notices the shift in Arthur’s posture and lifts the corner of her mouth, “My Lord, I fear that Arthur has had a thought.”
Arthur glares at her as he rolls his arm, revelling in the relief, “Very funny.” He looks towards his father, who fixes him a questioning look, “I hurt my arm in training this morning and… And it’s been taken away.” Merlin sucks in a breath as he catches the look on Arthur’s face. His eyes are soft and shine a grateful light.
Uther, on the other hand, scowls, “How will you learn to deal with the reality of war if your soulmate coddles you like this?” He takes a strong gulp of his wine, “Your mother knew not to accept my injuries, and I was made stronger for it.”
Arthur shrinks down in his chair slightly, and Merlin’s heart tugs. Who is Uther to dictate the bond between people soul-marked together? He shakes the notion from his mind, he did it as a favour, nothing more. He may not believe Arthur truly is destined to be his, but he stands by his action. He won't let someone hurt just for the sake of it.
Thankfully, Morgana doesn’t accept the dissent, “I think its sweet; whoever they are, they’re surely someone we would love to have around. They seem kind.” She looks to Arthur, catching his eye with a grin.
Arthur straightens his shoulders and nods his head in agreement, “They’ve helped me many a time, I wonder if they know who they’re helping.” He looks down to his food, smiling softly. It doesn’t escape Merlin that he’s never seen Arthur look so vulnerable and is loath to admit that he would take on the pain in a heartbeat, just to see him smile like that again.
As the conversation shifts and the dinner wraps up, Merlin favours his left and hurries to get the plates and dishes removed. He’s a bit clumsy with it, and that gets him an obnoxiously raised eyebrow from the prince. He makes sure to stick his tongue out towards Arthur when Uther turns away, enjoying the way the prince frowns when he’s unable to retaliate, his father asking him a question.
Back in the safety of his own room, he removes his shirt and places a hand over his right shoulder. A gentle, blue light washes from his palm; with the softness of fur and the touch of a simple breeze, the sharp ache of his strained muscle eases away into nothing.