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If there was one thing Merlin knew he should never do near Arthur Pendragon, it was this.
Of course, there were more things than this one thing. He knew that. He also knew that he had done a fair few of them already, without meaning to; these included tripping over his own feet and hiccuping after eating too quickly.
But still. If he were to boil it down to the essentials, there were only two things that mattered. That really, really mattered—not because there weren’t other things that could embarrass him if they ever dared happen in front of Arthur, but… Because those other things could all be explained away, in some way or other—could be made a joke of—while these two, these essential things that mattered, they couldn’t. If they happened, then… all was lost.
No excuses would suffice. No carefree smile would cover up the glaring reality of these things if they were discovered. No laugh would drown it out.
And yet—
And yet, he was being stupid. Because right now, in this very moment, he was doing one of them, and he was so close to doing the other one, and he was in. Arthur’s. Chambers. Any moment now, the Crown Prince of Camelot could push into the room, into his space, and see.
And Merlin had no way of leaving.
On the other side of the door, the door currently pressing into his back like the hard, unyielding hand of existence—holding him upright, mutely telling him to pull himself together—a high-pitched giggle erupted. Another, even higher, joined in, followed by a lower chuckle. The snickers echoed, bouncing between the walls and hitting his eardrums in volleys.
A group of maids—at least three, but maybe as many as five or six—had stationed themselves in the corridor outside, unwittingly besieging him. Merlin hadn’t dared peek outside to see what they were doing, but guessed them to be arranging flowers for the upcoming solstice festival. They didn’t sound like they had any intentions of going anywhere anytime soon, anyway, and going past them was out of the question. Castle maids had sharp eyes; tongues, sharper still: ever ready to cleave what they saw into a hundred savoury pieces, spread throughout the castle for every welcoming ear to enjoy. If they saw him—and they would, if he left the ‘safety’ of Arthur’s chambers—they would know. They would waste no time in spreading the word that the Prince’s silly manservant had been spotted bawlin’ his eyes out when he should’a been workin’—
And then, his secret would be out.
Merlin raised a shaking fist to his mouth and bit down, hard, on the fleshy junction between the heel of his hand and his thumb. Warmth pulsed under his skin, pushing gently back at where his teeth dug in: a question, almost, a quest for permission to soothe the pain he himself was inflicting. His magic was trying to comfort him, of all things, like it used to when he was a child. If he let it, it would conjure butterflies, whose wings would catch the light just so so that the blue shimmered with green before they alighted on his up-drawn knees, his aching, stinging arms, his eyelids. Anywhere they reached.
And if Arthur walked in then…
Then, both of his secrets would be out.
Merlin dug his teeth in harder. There would be marks, when he let go; imprints of human teeth on human skin, an irony in a moment when he felt so distinctly inhuman.
For yes. He had human teeth. Human tears, and a human face that would doubtless be swollen and red from said human tears. Human emotions, maybe, at least sometimes; but that was as far as it went.
He wasn’t human; hadn’t been born human, got less human by the day.
He was…
He didn’t know what he was.
A raw sob caught in his throat, choking him even as he clung to his own hand as an anchor, his head sinking to his knees.
He didn’t know what he was; he didn’t know. Kilgharrah had given him a purpose—Arthur—and Gaius had done his best to help him, but he still didn’t know. In ways, he was so much more desperate now than he’d ever been before he left Ealdor. Back then at least, he’d never had to kill anyone. Had never suffered the ramifications of mistakes too big for him to bear. He’d dreamed of using his gifts for good: to save lives, to boost nature’s beauty into a flourishing paradise. Yet so far, using his gifts for good—for Camelot and Arthur’s future—had only turned him into the monster he’d always feared he was.
A slayer, hiding in the shadows. A smooth liar. A freak. He could relate to no one.
And yet, if he was all that… Then why did it bother him so much?
His hand throbbed, but he didn’t loosen his teeth. The bite did not only suppress his magic; it muffled his sobs too, stopped him from gasping in loud breaths that might echo between the stone walls and slip through the cracks of the door to the maids and whoever else happened to be out in the corridor at the moment.
The maids had fallen quiet, come to think of it. He could almost believe they had moved on, but then there were the footsteps—heavier than a maid’s and firmer than a manservant’s, yet not jangling like a guard’s—and the turn of the latch, a metallic snap just above his head.
He had a split-second to scoot away from the door before it opened.
He didn’t quite make it.
The distance gained only gave the door more power, and it crashed into his back, sending him sprawling. Half on his stomach, half on his side with his arm trapped under his face, his fist had jerked out of his mouth as he fell, but there was no time to free his arm and look at the imprint before—
“Merlin! What on earth are you doing there?”
Merlin’s jaw ached. The aborted tension of its hold seemed to have locked his muscles somehow, but that wasn’t what kept him from speaking. Nor was it what kept him from looking up at where he now knew Arthur to be standing, back early from the council meeting, staring down at him with a no doubt infuriated expression on his face.
No. It was just…
Arthur hadn’t seen yet. And if Merlin didn’t turn his head, didn’t turn his disgusting, snotty face towards him, or use his stupid crybaby voice, he wouldn’t—
His nose spasmed, trickled, and he sniffled loudly in an unconscious bid to keep the fluid inside.
“Are you crying?!”
And there, just like that. Easy. It was out.
Merlin pressed his eyes shut. It kept fresh tears from escaping, but the damage was already done.
This, he couldn’t smile away. He couldn’t joke away. It wasn’t like tripping over his own feet, or like the hiccups. His misery was blatant. Glaring. Obscene. He could never blame crying on himself being a clumsy fool.
“Merlin.”
Or could he?
…
Need creates solutions. He could.
Breathing in shakily, Merlin pushed up from the floor. When his head bumped into something fleshy—a hand, which gave way—he jolted slightly; he’d expected Arthur to be standing above him, but instead, apparently, he was crouching next to him, hands half raised as though he was uncertain what to do with them. On his face, there was a frown, which might’ve passed as concerned, had it not been for the fact that Arthur often frowned at him in this way, and Merlin recognised the expression.
It was the ‘there-is-definitely-something-wrong-with-you’ look; a mixture of disgust and discomfort rather than sympathy.
Come to think of it, it lined up well with the way Arthur still held his hands. He really didn’t know what to do with them. He’d likely thought it his duty to reach out to Merlin, but kept it off for as long as possible because there was nothing he’d rather not do.
Because his true instincts were to ward Merlin off.
Despite being ignorant of his magic, Arthur—like so many others—had long sensed there was something off about Merlin. He likely didn’t know what to call it; he’d even admitted, the first time they met, that he couldn’t put his finger on it. He didn’t know to call Merlin inhuman, or a monster; but he felt it all the same. That much was obvious.
Because Arthur might be awkward with emotions. But if it had been Gwen crying on the floor, or Morgana, or anyone else, he would’ve reached out to her right away. No hesitation.
It was only right. But it fed the darkness inside—that bristling, evergrowing darkness that kept him up at night—and that scared him. There was a reason Gaius always made sure to hug Merlin, after all. Affection made him less dangerous; made him feel more like he might’ve if he’d been normal. It soothed, and made him docile. He wondered if his mother had told Gaius this, or if Gaius had figured it out on his own. How repulsive was it, he wondered, to hug him? Did Gaius have to force himself—to pretend? Did he practise with the leeches?
A watery smile crept onto his face, fuelled by these thoughts. He didn’t have to pretend, to force his lips to curve; the ironies of life did that all too well for him.
Arthur was still frowning.
“Sorry,” Merlin said. “I tripped and I uh, umm. I bit my tongue.”
The frown intensified. “You… tripped.”
Merlin shrugged. “You know it happens.”
“You tripped and you bit your tongue.”
“M-hm.” Merlin kept his smile plastered to his face, sniffing more snot back in his nostrils.
Arthur seemed to hold himself too high to continue the line of questioning, but his disbelief still shone in his eyes. Is there even blood? they seemed to say.
Merlin sighed, letting his smile slip a little. I wish. “Low pain threshold. Gaius says. Heh. I cry all the time, when I get hurt.”
“Ah.” Arthur didn’t fidget, but for a long, awkward moment, he looked nearly uncomfortable enough to do it. Merlin smiled again, toothily. Arthur straightened. “Well. I’m sure most cowards can relate.” Hitting Merlin on the shoulder, he jumped to his feet, pulling Merlin roughly along.
Merlin laughed, not caring in the least that it came out hysterical.
Turns out his secret was safe, after all.