Merthur One-shots

His Own Battlefield

Summary: It takes Merlin some time to talk about his scars.

It takes Merlin more time to take his shirt off.

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It takes Merlin some time to talk about his scars.

Months, in fact, after Arthur learned about the magic, and everything that Merlin has done for him. Months of convincing Merlin that those are all battle scars, just like Arthur’s are. That the fact they aren’t sword cuts exactly, doesn’t change anything.

Months of repeating to Merlin what Arthur learnt when he was a boy in his first year of training: anything that shows on your body is a testimony to how resilient it is. Months of complimenting Merlin on things seemingly having nothing to do with his tribulations: thanking him for good counsel, commenting on his bravery, or simply joking with him to alleviate the mood.

It takes Merlin more time to take his shirt off.

More months of learning to be gentle. Of patience, and letting Merlin take his time with what he allows Arthur to do and what he doesn’t. Months of Arthur learning to show casual affection without being intrusive. Holding Merlin’s hand, smiling, kissing his cheek, tousling his hair – until it is Merlin himself who clings to Arthur for dear life, who buries his head in his shoulder, lets himself be held.

Then, months of Merlin accepting sex only in the dark, with his chest covered, and silently slipping away when Arthur is asleep. Months of Arthur showing Merlin his scars. He has many, most of them from the sword, but there are also clear claw marks from the Questing Beast on his shoulder. Arthur was taught to never interpret them as anything else than signs of his bravery.

Months before Merlin sighs and lifts his shirt, exposing his own battlefield.

Some of the scars, Arthur knows where they came from. The huge burn at the centre of Merlin’s chest where his chest hair should be, is from Nimueh. A round expanse of white-pink patches of skin reaching from one nipple to another, with the left nipple all but gone, replaced by a red gash. Merlin once told him he faintly remembered wisps of smoke coming from his chest when he was lying on the ground, almost defeated.

Merlin’s stomach bears two more scars: white, spider-like lines radiating from two epicentres, one on the left side of Merlin’s ribcage, the other under his navel. Those probably come from the Sidhe staff. They still look painful, though much less so in comparison to the burn.

There are also some miscellaneous cuts here and there, probably from numerous patrols and all those times Merlin tripped over his own shoes. And, when Arthur thinks he’s seen everything already, Merlin suddenly turns his back to him.

There is an odd, irregular pattern of cuts on his back, spreading over his shoulder blades and down his spine. Arthur frowns. He knows near everything about wounds, but he can’t attribute those to anything he experienced. They are too wobbly and random to be knife cuts, and they don’t match a pattern of being hit by a mace. Some of them look deep, the others shallow – too shallow to be a result of whipping.

“What is that?” Arthur asks before he’s able to think better of it. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he adds hastily.

“No, I do,” Merlin says. “They are from stones.”

“Stones…? But… how?”