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Merlin is, in retrospect, careless.
Perhaps it is because Arthur does not ride with them this time. Arthur is away, negotiating borders an ambitious neighboring king instead of barking orders in Merlin's ear. There is no familiar weight at Merlin’s side, no one stepping in front of him at the exact second danger does. Arthur always does that. Merlin pretends it annoys him. It never does.
Perhaps it is because magic in Camelot is free now. Merlin no longer has to hide. He can raise shields openly, call fire without fear the pyres. Ironically, it makes him less careful.
Or perhaps it is because he has seen too many friends die, and Sir Pelleas is far too young, far too new, and far too stupid to recognize a killing ward when he steps straight into one.
Merlin sees it happen in a single, horrible moment. The sigils flare beneath the knight’s boots. Pelleas freezes, eyes wide, sword useless. The spell is already closing. If Merlin does not move, Pelleas will die.
And Merlin has sworn, quietly and without witnesses, that he will bring every knight his King gives a sword to come home alive.
So he runs. Charging into the magic circle without thinking past the next breath. Gold flares in his eyes as he shouts the spell, voice tearing through the air. Magic answers him instantly, eager and wild. The ward buckles.
Merlin reaches Pelleas, drags him close, wraps an arm around him as the magical shield begins to rise.
He is a second too slow.
The curse hits him. Like a thousand knives, glowing red, driven straight into his skull. Fire floods his vision. His eyes feel as though they are boiling, bursting, tearing themselves apart from the inside. And god. It hurts.
He screams. He clutches Pelleas tighter, curls his body around the knight, and screams again until the sound disappears.
When Merlin wakes, the world is too dark.
At first he has no idea where he is. But then he knows the bed.
The mattress is too soft, the scent too familiar. Arthur’s scent. Merlin exhales, grounding himself in it, before realizing he cannot see anything at all.
There is pressure around his eyes. Bandages. Thick ones. Cool salve seeps through the linen, easing the worst of the burning pain.
He hears people breathing. Shifting. A room full of them.
“Sir Pelleas?” Merlin asks, his own voice hoarse enough to startles him.
Someone laughs. Gwaine. “First thing out of your mouth,” he starts, “Honestly. Waking up from nearly dying just to check on someone else. That’s our Merlin.”
“Is he all right?” Merlin asks, ignoring him.
“I’m afraid not,” Gwaine says.
“Oh.” Something cold drops into Merlin’s chest. “Oh. Don’t tell me he’s already—”
“Relax,” Gwaine cuts in. “He’s alive. Unfortunately for him, actually. I suspect he’d rather be dead than face the princess’ temper when he hears about this. As it is, he’s over there, shaking like a rabbit in the corner.”
Gwaine’s voice turns away. “You—yes, you, stop hovering and come here. The court sorcerer is asking after your health.”
Footsteps approach. Someone stops near the bed.
“My lord,” Pelleas says. His voice is young and trembling. “I’m here. I was barely injured, thanks to your protection.” He hesitates, breath hitching. “I would rather it had been me. The king’s standing order to the knights is to protect you, and I failed. It was for me that your eyes were—”
His voice breaks. The chamber falls into a heavy silence.
Merlin frowns. Something cold settles in his stomach. “What’s wrong with my eyes?” he asks.
Gaius answers him. “You stepped into a lethal magical construct, Merlin. A violent one. Most of it was repelled by your shield, but some of the spell… reached your eyes.”
Merlin swallows. “Am I blind?”
“No—” Gaius says quickly, then pauses. “Not necessarily. It’s too early to say. Geoffrey’s medical texts may offer a cure. Or at least guidance.”
“Wonderful,” Merlin says, forcing lightness into his tone. “Shame I can’t help you search through them this time, Gaius. Seeing as I’m bli—”
Gaius clears his throat sharply.
Merlin sighs and corrects himself. “Seeing as my eyes are injured.”
He lies back against the pillows, listening to the careful way no one says Arthur’s name. Arthur is not here. Arthur does not know. Arthur will come back to this.
Merlin wonders, distantly, whether the king will shout.
Two days pass. Time moves differently when Merlin cannot see it.
Poor Pelleas, the guilty young knight trails after him like a nervous puppy, his chainmails clinking at every step. Breathing that grows quick whenever Merlin stumbles.
It isn’t that Merlin dislikes the company. Pelleas’s concern is clumsy but sincere, and Merlin finds it oddly touching. Still, it makes him feel extremely frustrated when he cannot find the cup on the table, though he knows precisely where it should be. His fingers skim over empty wood again and again until Pelleas wordlessly presses the cup into his hand.
The simple act of walking across a corridor has become so difficult.
He trips again that morning, the edge of a stone step catching his boot. Pelleas’s hands are there instantly, steadying him before he can fall.
“Careful, my lord,” Pelleas says.
Merlin swallows back his irritation. “You don’t have to follow me all the way.”
“It is my duty to protect you. You are the king’s sorcorer. ”
“Exactly,” Merlin mutters. “Not his fragile grandmother.”
Pelleas laughs awkwardly, but he doesn’t let go. His hand remains a breath away, ready to catch Merlin if he stumbles again.
Merlin hates this. The quiet, suffocating helplessness of it. He can wielding power vast enough to tear mountains apart, and now he can't even walk straight.
When he is escorted back to their chambers, Pelleas takes up a position in the corner and stays there. Merlin sits on the chair, hands folded. Being stared at when one cannot stare back is sort of discomfort. It prickles.
Clearing his throat. He considers thanking Sir Pelleas, or reassuring him, or telling him politely that hovering will not unblind him. He opens his mouth as the door is flung open with enough force to make the hinges protest.
Merlin does not need sight for this. No one barges into the king’s chambers without knocking unless he is the king. And no one does it with quite that much urgency unless he is Arthur.
“Merlin.” Arthur says his name like it is the first thing he has said all day and the last thing he plans to say ever again.
Merlin turns toward the sound. He aims his face where Arthur should be standing. He sees nothing but he knows Arthur is there. Merlin can hear his breathing. It is uneven. Too fast.
Arthur does not speak.
Merlin waits. He has learned, over the years, that Arthur sometimes needs a moment to assemble himself, especially when he is failing spectacularly at being calm.
“You’re back early,” Merlin says lightly, aiming his voice toward Arthur and hoping he guessed right. “How did the negotiations go?”
Another breath. Then Arthur speaks, clipped and strained.
“We reached an agreement with King Godwyn,” A pause. “The border along the Vale of Eredan is clearly defined now. No more disputes. ”
“That sounds like a success.”
“Yes,” Arthur replys, a little too sharply. “Though the entire time I was there, restraining myself not signing the whole fucking land over to Caerleon and riding straight back to Camelot without another word.”
Merlin smiles, pointedly ignores the rest. “I’m glad everything went smoothly on your end.”
“As for me,” Merlin adds, lifting one shoulder in a small, helpless shrug, “Things here might have been… less so. I might have been a bit clumsy. Possibly heroic. Definitely injured.”
Pelleas clears his throat from the corner, voice tight with guilt. “I’m sorry, sire. It was my carelessness. The court sorcerer was injured protecting me.”
Merlin winces. If he could see, he would already be reaching out to stop what comes next.
Because that lands precisely on Arthur’s breaking point.
Arthur turns on the knight. “You were assigned to guard him,” Arthur snaps. “My consort husband. And you let him walk into danger ahead of you?”
“Sire, I—”
“I swear on my crown if anyone has caused him even the slightest harm, I will make them repay it tenfold—” Arthur says, cold and furious.
“Hey!” Merlin cuts in, fast and loud, blind eyes fixed stubbornly in Arthur’s direction. A moment ago he was chafing under Pelleas’s hovering like an overwatched child. Now he bristles, instinctive and fierce like a hen protecting baby chikens with her feathers fluffed.
“Don’t be such a prat,” Merlin says sharply. “We both know that when you charge into a battle, getting hurt is practically tradition. I’m the court sorcerer of Camelot, not one of the palace’s glass ornaments.”
There is a stunned silence.
Arthur exhales through his nose. “Sir Pelleas,” he says, clipped now, controlled. “We'll talk about this later, you shall leave now. And close the door.”
“Yes, sire.” Chainmails shifts, boots retreat. The door shuts, firmly.
As the knight gone the room feels suddenly vast.
Merlin’s world is only darkness now. Without the small noises of another presence, the silence presses in, heavy and wrong. His fingers curl into the palm.
“Arthur?” he calls, quietly.
No answer.
The silence stretches. Merlin swallows. “Arthur,” he tries again, louder this time. His voice betrays him, shaking despite his effort.
Then footsteps—close, careful.
“I’m here,” Arthur says.
Merlin feels him before he fully registers the words: warmth, solid and familiar, close enough that Merlin could reach out and be certain of him. His shoulders loosen at once.
Merlin lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
“Are you angry with me?” he asks softly.
Arthur hesitates. Merlin can hear it in the pause, in the way Arthur’s breathing shifts.
“I’m not,” Arthur says at last. “I’m not angry at you.” A beat. “I’m angry at myself.”
“I’m angry that when things happened. I wasn’t even fucking there,” Arthur continues bitterly. “I should've protect you.”
Merlin hears the quiet ache threaded through his King's voice. Arthur’s face forms itself easily in his mind—brows drawn tight, mouth pressed into a stubborn line, blue eyes crowded with worry. Or perhaps Arthur is doing what he has always done when things cuts too close, head bowed, shoulders set, determined that Merlin should not witness his weakness.
Merlin lifts his hand, trying to reach. It is meant to be a small thing. He reaches out where Arthur should be. Fingers meet only air. For a split second, panic curls in his stomach. He hates this part. The hesitation. The way his body no longer obeys him without question. He feels suddenly clumsy, exposed, reduced to stumbling in the dark.
Then Arthur moves. He steps forward and presses his face straight into Merlin’s waiting hand. Cupping Merlin’s fingers and holds them there, warm skin firm beneath Merlin’s palm. Arthur exhales, and the breath ghosts across Merlin’s knuckles.
“There,” Arthur murmurs, soft, almost rueful. Then he turns his head slightly, rubbing his cheek into Merlin’s hand with insistence.
Merlin’s thumb finds the familiar line of Arthur’s jaw. He smiles faintly. “You know,” he says, trying for lightness, “most kings don’t nuzzle their sorcerers after diplomatic missions.”
Arthur huffs a breath that might almost be a laugh. He keeps Merlin’s hand where it is. “Most kings aren’t married to idiots who throw themselves in front of some lethal magic.”
Merlin snorts. “Idiots don’t survive magic like that.”
“True,” Arthur concedes. “You are, annoyingly, the greatest sorcerer on this earth.” A tender kiss pressing into Merlin’s palm. “So, my magnificent Emrys, please—do please—look after my idiot, clumsy, far-too-kind husband.”
Merlin’s smile warms. “Promise,” he says simply.
Arthur pulls him closer. Merlin feels the shift before he understands it. Warm breath brushes his nose, and then Arthur kisses him slow.
Merlin kisses back, instinctively. His hands move, tracing the solid lines of Arthur’s shoulders. The king still wearing heavy chainmail and a fur cloak—He must have ridden straight back to Camelot, straight to their chambers, without stopping to change.
Arthur breaks the kiss, just enough to speak. “What are you thinking about?” he says, fondly suspicious.
Merlin’s fingers curl lightly into the rings of chain. He smiles, soft and crooked. “That my husband loves me too much to even take his armor off first,” he smiles, a little shy, a little daring. “Let me help you out of it,” he says softly. “Let me undress you, sire.”
He reaches forward, careful but determined. Darkness gives him no guidance, but his King does instead. Arthur’s hands close gently over his. “Here,” he murmurs, guiding him. He leads Merlin’s fingers up, toward his shoulder. “The clasp.”
His fingertips brush leather, then metal, then the warm skin at Arthur’s throat. He feels the steady, living pulse beneath his touch.
His fingers slip once, then again. Merlin exhales a quiet, frustrated laugh. “I’ve done this a thousand times.”
“A million,” Arthur corrects, fond.
“And yet,” Merlin mutters, trying again.
Arthur never lets go. He steadies Merlin’s hands, patient, unwavering, until at last the clasp gives way beneath Merlin’s fingers. The fur cloak loosens, slides from Arthur’s shoulders, and falls to the floor with a soft, heavy sound.
Guided by Arthur’s hands, Merlin works next at the chainmail—slowly, deliberately. The rings whisper as they loosen. Piece by piece, weight leaves Arthur’s body, until at last the armor is gone.
Merlin’s hands linger, reverent. Palms resting flat against Arthur’s chest. He swallows. “Take me to the bed,” he pleas softly and earnest. “My lord.”
Soon instead of a verbal response, a pair of strong, muscular arms scoops Merlin up. Merlin’s arms instinctively loop around Arthur’s neck. The world shifts, then steadies as Arthur lowers him gently onto the mattress.
Merlin feels the heat of Arthur's body drawing nearer. His hands are gentle as they find the hem of Merlin's tunic, fingers working the laces with practiced ease.
The fabric whispers as it's tugged upward, over Merlin's head, leaving his skin bare to the cool air of the chamber. Arthur's breath catches slightly—Merlin hears it, that soft hitch—and it sends a shiver through him.
Next come the trousers. Arthur's palms slide down Merlin's sides, warm and steady, hooking into the waistband. He tugs them down slowly, lifting Merlin's hips just enough to ease them off. Merlin's cock stirs at the touch, half-hard already. Beneath the growing heat, there is still a flicker of tension coils in his chest. He can't see Arthur's face, can't read the expressions that used to tell him everything. As if sensing it, Arthur pauses. His hand rests on Merlin's thigh, thumb stroking in slow circles. "I'm going to touch you now," he murmurs, voice low and reassuring, like he's gentling a skittish horse. "Just your legs, first. Spread them a little for me."
Merlin nods, exhaling shakily as he parts his thighs. Arthur's weight shifts on the bed, dipping the mattress. There's a soft clink—Merlin recognizes it as the vial of oil from the bedside table—and then Arthur's fingers, slick and warm, trail up the inside of Merlin's thigh. "I'm coating my fingers," Arthur says softly. "Going to open you up. Tell me if it's sore."
The first press is gentle, Arthur's fingertip circling Merlin's arse before easing in. Merlin gasps, arching slightly, the sensation sharp and intimate in the blackness. Arthur whispers praises as he works, a second finger joining the first, scissoring carefully, stretching him with patience that borders on reverence. "You're doing so well, sweetheart." Arthur breathes, his free hand stroking Merlin's hip.
Merlin's tension unravels under the words, the careful touches. He moans softly as Arthur adds a third finger, curling them just right to brush that spot inside him, sending sparks through his veins. The oil slicks everything, warm and slippery, and by the time Arthur withdraws, Merlin is hard and aching, his body ready, thrumming with need.
Arthur shifts again, thighs pressing between Merlin's, spreading him wider. Strong hands lift Merlin's legs, hooking them over Arthur's shoulders. Merlin feels the blunt head of Arthur's cock nudge against his entrance, and gods it is hot.
"Can I? Are you ready for me?"
Merlin's heart twists. He doesn't want to feel useless, doesn't want Arthur to treat him like something fragile. That's the reason Merlin surges up before Arthur can move further.
Hands finding Arthur's chest in the dark. He pushes firmly until Arthur yields with a surprised huff, tumbling back onto the pillows.
"Lie still," Merlin commands. "Don't move. I want to take charge this time."
"Yes, my lord." Arthur's laughter is breathless. "Your commands are my wishes," he replies.
Merlin feels Arthur settle beneath him, the king's body going lax against the sheets. The mattress creaks as Merlin moves, crawling forward on his knees, hands outstretched like a seeker in the night. His palms find Arthur's thighs first, the muscle taut and familiar under his touch. He slides upward, mapping the terrain by feel—the dip of Arthur's hips, the trail of coarse hair leading down to where his cock stands hard and heavy.
Merlin kneels over him, straddling Arthur's waist, and leans down. His mouth finds Arthur's chest—smooth skin over firm muscle—and he licks a slow path across it, tasting salt and the faint tang of sweat from the ride. Arthur's breath hitches, a low groan escaping as Merlin's tongue circles a nipple, teasing it to a peak before nipping gently.
"Merlin," Arthur gasps.
Encouraged, Merlin explores further in his sightless world, relying on touch and sound. His fingers trace Arthur's ribs, down to his hips, then wrap around Arthur's cock—thick and pulsing in his grip. He strokes slowly, thumb swiping over the head, slick with pre-seed. Arthur moans, hips twitching upward despite Merlin's command to stay still. Body trembling beneath him. Merlin savors every gasp and hitch of breath from his High King.
"Fuck," Arthur swears, voice ragged. "Merlin, that's—"
Shifting lower, mouth following his hands, licking along the length of Arthur's cock before taking him in.
The taste is heady, musky, and Arthur's groan vibrates through them both as Merlin sucks, tongue swirling. Arthur's fingers tangle in Merlin's hair now, his breaths coming in sharp pants.
"Gods, yes—your mouth—"
Merlin pulls off with a wet pop, crawling back up to kiss Arthur fiercely, swallowing his king's whimpers. His own cock aches, grinding against Arthur's thigh as he pushes himself up, palms flat against the bed for balance.
The mattress dips under his weight as he kneels straighter, straddling Arthur's hips.
"Going to ride you now," Merlin declares. "Need you in me." His voice full of hungers that surprises even him.
A hand captures his—Arthur's, warm and calloused, fingers intertwining with Merlin's.
"Let me lead you," Arthur murmurs, his tone rough with desire. He guides Merlin's hand downward, wrapping it around the base of his cock. Merlin feels the heat of it instantly. Arthur's length pulses in their joined grasp, and Merlin's own arousal throbs in response, his arse clenching in anticipation.
Together, they hold Arthur's cock steady. Merlin's other hand braces against the bed beside Arthur's thigh, fingers digging into the linens for leverage as he rises onto his knees.
Straightening his back, positioning himself above Arthur, the blunt head of that firm shaft brushing against his entrance. The contact sends a jolt needy through him. Merlin bites his lip, focusing on the sensation—
Slowly, deliberately, Merlin sinks down. The initial press stretches him, the oiled slickness easing the way as inch after inch fills him. Arthur's cock is unyielding, hot and thick, splitting him open in the most exquisite way.
Merlin gasps, a sharp intake of breath that turns into a moan as he takes more, his body adjusting to the fullness. "Fuck," he whispers, the word escaping unbidden, his thighs trembling from the effort of control.
Arthur groans beneath him, deep and guttural, his hips twitching involuntarily as Merlin seats himself fully.
For a long moment, Merlin just breathes, adjusting, savoring the way their bodies connect so completely. He feels—feels every ridge, every vein pressing inside him, filling him to the brim until there's no space left for darkness—
He begins to move, slowly, deliberately, rising up just a fraction before sinking back down. The motion is languid, drawing out each slide. Up and down, again and again, Merlin sets a rhythm. Grinding in small circles at the bottom of each descent, feeling Arthur's cock shift inside him, rubbing against his walls in ways that send shivers racing up his spine.
Time stretches. Merlin's breaths come in measured pants, his hands braced on Arthur's chest for leverage, fingers digging into the firm muscle there. He hears Arthur's breathing first—rough, heavy, like a man on the edge of restraint. Each inhale is ragged, punctuated by low groans that vibrate through Merlin's palms.
Then come the hands. Arthur's palms slide up Merlin's sides, calloused and warm, climbing to his chest. Fingers find his nipples, rubbing and pinching with just enough pressure to make Merlin gasp, darkness has sharpened every touch and sound.
Merlin's skin prickles with awareness, his hearing attuned to the hitch in Arthur's breath, the rustle of sheets beneath them.
"What do I look like right now?" he breathes, "while you're doing something so filthy to me?"
Arthur chuckles wicked, his hands never stopping their teasing—thumbs circling Merlin's nipples, rolling them until they're hard peaks.
"Oh, you want to know?" he murmurs, his voice dropping into that husky timbre that always sends heat pooling in Merlin's gut. "You're riding my cock... while you're so hard and leaking, bouncing with every move. Fucking gorgeous like this, dripping for me, so needy. I could watch you like this forever—my sorcerer, taking what you wants, owning me."
Merlin shudders at the words, rhythm faltering for a beat. But he recovers, grinding down harder, drawing a sharp curse from Arthur.
"Bet you're the one looking wrecked—trying not to come too soon because your genius husband has you right on the edge."
Arthur's laughter rumbles through his chest, vibrating against Merlin's palms. "Guilty as charged," he admits, one hand sliding down to grip Merlin's hip, thrusts up gently, shallow but enough to make Merlin moan. "Keep going slow like that. Make me beg for it."
Merlin huffs, speeding up just a fraction to tease. "Beg? From the king? Now that's a sight I'd love to—"
The words catch in his throat. The banter cracks something open inside him, a vulnerability he hadn't expected. What if he can never sees? Never watches those blue eyes crinkle with laughter, or darken with desire? The fear surges up, choking him. His movements slow, then stutter to a halt, and before he can stop it, hot tears well up behind the bandages, spilling down his cheeks.
"Merlin?" Arthur's voice shifts instantly, his hands stilling on Merlin's body.
Merlin shakes his head, but the tears come faster, silent at first, then with a choked sob.
"I... I can't see you," he whispers, the words breaking. "What if I never can again? What if this is forever—"
Arthur sits up immediately, cock still buried deep inside Merlin, the shift sending a surge through them both. Strong arms wrap around Merlin's waist, pulling him close into a cuddle. Merlin's legs adjust instinctively, wrapping around Arthur's hips as he's held flush against his king's chest.
"Shh, love," Arthur's heart thuds steadily against his own, one hand cradling the back of Merlin's head, the other rubbing down his back in long, soothing passes.
Lips finding Merlin's cheeks, kissing away the tears. "I'll find a way," Arthur promises. "Every method—medicines, magicals, whatever it takes. I'll scour the kingdom, send knights to the ends of Albion if I must. You will see again, Merlin. I swear it on my life."
Merlin sniffles, hands clutching at Arthur's shoulders, feeling his cock twitching inside him, drawing a soft gasp from Merlin's mouth.
"You're too good, too kind," Arthur continues, his breath hitching as Merlin moves again,. Merlin rises onto his knees, then sinks back down, the slide of Arthur's thick shaft filling him anew. "The world can't be so cruel to you. Not to my Merlin—who shall deserve the sun."
Merlin's rhythm builds gradually, kneeling straighter to lift himself higher before dropping back down, impaling himself on Arthur's cock with a wet, satisfying glide. The stretch is pleasurable in its intensity, each descent rubbing Arthur against that sensitive bundle of nerves inside him.
"The world... has always been unkind to me," Merlin whispers, voice breaking on a moan as he grinds down hard, taking full inside. "It's sort of my... destiny..."
Arthur groans, sitting up a bit more, pulling Merlin flush against him. "Then I'll fight the world for you," Arthur declares, lips capturing Merlin's in a brief, salty kiss. He breaks away to murmur against Merlin's ear, hot breath sending shivers down his spine. "I'll be your sword, your shield. And your eyes—I'll describe every dawn, every star, every face in the court until you see them through me—"
Merlin's tears slow, replaced by a growing heat as he obeys, straightening his back to rise higher on his knees, Arthur's cock nearly slipping free before he sinks back down, taking him to the hilt in one fluid motion.
The fullness makes him whimper, his body alive with sensation, every vein on Arthur's shaft dragging against his walls. Arthur's hands roam, one cupping Merlin's arse to help lift him, the other wrapping around Merlin's cock, stroking firmly in time with his movements.
"Fuck destiny. I'd burn it all down if it meant your happiness. " Arthur thrusting up gently to meet Merlin halfway, their bodies slapping together with increasing urgency. "Yes—yes, just like that. Harder, Merlin... I'm so close... Feel how hard I'd come for you—"
The words push Merlin closer to the edge, his movements growing erratic, the friction intense and unrelenting. Arthur's cock hits deep, sparking pleasure that radiates through him, his balls tightening.
"Arthur—please," Merlin gasps, clings to Arthur.
Arthur's grip tightens, stroking Merlin faster. With a final, deep thrust upward as Merlin sinks down, the coil snaps. Merlin cries out, hot spurts painting Arthur's chest and hand as Arthur comes, flooding him with warmth, hips bucking wildly.
Merlin collapsing into Arthur's arms, still connected. Their heartbeats audible in the dark.
"We'll find the light," A kiss pressed to Merlin's forehead. "Together."
Merlin nods against Arthur's shoulder.