Sleeves

Chapter 1

Camelot was at peace. For now anyway. Not a lot had really happened since Agravaine had been killed and Morgana  forced off the throne (again). No mysterious magical creatures had attacked and the harvests had been particularly fruitful. Despite the winter months closing in and the daylight rapidly fading away, spirits were high throughout the kingdom. And no one's spirits were higher than King Arthur's.

Whilst his confidence in his ability to rule had been severely knocked by Agravaine's betrayal, it had been thoroughly restored by pulling  Excalibur out of the stone and fighting alongside his people and, most importantly, his friends to win back his home. Not to mention his relationship with Gwen was going swimmingly. He was head over heels (as was she) and finally, finally, there was no one to stand in their way. Not his father, not his uncle, not his sister (for the time being anyway). Arthur, being the slightly hubristic person that he is, felt like he had this whole 'being-king-thing' completely sussed. For the first time in a long time he was actually happy.

As for Guinevere, she was also doing wonderfully. She was beyond glad that she didn't have to hide her affections for the king anymore. Not having to hide from various members of his family was truly a weight off her shoulders. She also loved having her brother with her once again. It was nice to be able to spend time with him after so long, especially after her father's death. Fair to say, Gwen was absolutely living her best life.

The knights too were a happy bunch. Leon's job as Head of the Guards had been particularly stress free recently. After all, no prisoners to lock up meant that no prisoners escaped from the oh-so-secure dungeons which meant no running madly around the parapets at ungodly hours of the night. Gwaine was happy to have finally found a tavern to call his second home, instead of having to find a new one every evening. He also had a group of people he could call friends that had become more of the family that he'd never really had. Percival was also thriving in his new family. He enjoyed having stability and routine and getting into mischief with Gwaine. I mean what better stealth training is there than trying to steal a couple of pies from the kitchens? As for Elyan, he was happy to be home in Camelot once more, able to keep a watchful eye over his sister and her budding romance with his king and brother in arms. And Lancelot? Well Lancelot was over the moon. He was finally a knight of Camelot. He had achieved his ultimate goal in life and it was better than he'd ever hoped to imagine as he couldn't possibly be serving under a better King. 

Gaius too was a happy man. Through his many turbulent years in Camelot (and there had been a lot), he had never seen such peace and happiness in the whole kingdom as there was currently. Sickness rates had plummeted, giving him much more time to devote to furthering his knowledge and as a result he had spent many happy afternoons in the library with Geoffrey. 

All in all, it looked like the land of Albion that so many had predicted was finally coming to pass. The future looked bright and really rather promising. Everyone was happy. Well, almost everyone.

You see, what the many happy people listed above hadn't noticed was how low their dear friend Merlin was sinking. He hid it well of course. Contrary to popular belief, Merlin was extremely adept at lying. Especially when it came to personal things. For, in order to reach this unparalled peace, everyone in Camelot had suffered and lost people, some more than others and none more than Merlin. Except no one really knew that. Gaius and Lancelot may have known a snippet here and there but not the real extent. Not truly. And now that there weren't questing beasts, trolls, murderous knights and evil half-sisters left, right and centre, Merlin had time to process the many losses he had suffered throughout his years in Camelot. Because he had always been running after Arthur, he had never really stopped to process Will, Freya, Balinor and the many others who had died for him and for Arthur. He had never had time to feel the weight of all the lives he had taken, some in cold blood (lately Nimueh had been plaguing his dreams like she had Camelot's water supply all those years ago). He had never had time to examine the many scars he had collected from his many adventures. And sufficed to say, Merlin was completely overwhelmed and really wasn't coping all that well, if he was completely honest with himself. Which he wasn't.

Merlin blamed himself for all that had happened, especially with Morgana. If he hadn't poisoned her, what would've happened? If he had revealed his magic to her, what would've happened? Oh how different things could have been. He felt so guilty, so remorseful, so angry with himself, so hurt. And he couldn't deal with all of those emotions. I mean how can one person feel all of that without bursting into flames?

Thus Merlin did the only thing he could think of doing. He suppressed every thought, every feeling. He pushed them into a little box inside his mind and built walls around it. He couldn't deal with the pain so he hid from it. But no one can ever really hide from their own thoughts. No one can really control pain. And so Merlin turned to a different kind of pain. One that he could control. After all, he had so many scars, a few more weren't going to make that big of a difference.

The first time Merlin took a knife to his skin was after his father had died. He couldn't bear the fact that he'd lost someone so important so soon after Freya. He barely drew blood and he was beyond ashamed of the marks that he'd made. But as time went on the shame dissipated and the knife sank ever deeper into his wrists, his thighs, his hips, his ankles, wherever there was room. And each time he cut himself, there was less and less reason to it. Originally, he would only do it after a particularly traumatic flashback or panic attack but within months of starting, he would do a couple of slices everyday, whether the day had been good or bad. It became a habit, less of a coping mechanism and more of an addiction. It didn't even feel good anymore. It didn't give him the release he craved. And yet he continued to do it. Maybe it was a cry for help. But if it was, it was a cry no one heard.