Chapter Text
In this story, Merlin's wings unfurl/hide like lucifers in the TV show Lucifer.
-
Merlin continued to roll his shoulders uncomfortably throughout his chores, kneeling on the hard floor and scrubbing had caused his tunic to shift and rub against his shoulder blades. He felt his skin irritating and could feel the slight burn from the near-constant brush of fabric against it.
He grit his teeth.
Just a few more hours.
A few hours.
Then he could go home and take care of it.
-
When Arthur returned to his chambers, Merlin had finally finished the blasted floors. His back aching even more than it had been a few hours ago, the slight sweat-dampened material creating a more vigorous burn. He knew he must be rubbed raw by now, but he had left it too long and now he was paying for it.
He was all too eager to get back to his chambers and Gaius. At least there he could get some temporary relief from the restrictions. Luckily, he'd foreseen Arthur's tendency to add to his workload when Merlin looked too happy, so he'd already fetched lunch, done the laundry, and polished his boots - which contradictorily had made his back worse but at least he could go home before supper.
Upon the prince's return to his chambers, Merlin methodically completed the necessary tasks in relative silence, counting down the seconds before he could leave without raising suspicion. As Arthur settled into his chambers, Merlin busied himself, checking over Arthur's armour and sword. Despite the ache in his shoulder blades, he maintained his composure, not wanting Arthur to question him.
Finally, as Arthur became engrossed in some royal document, Merlin seized the opportunity to slip away discreetly. With a subtle nod to the prince, he made his exit, his back rigid and slightly hunched to avoid any further strain and friction.
His shirt rode up and down ever so slightly down the trek of the stairs, the corridors, more stairs, more hallways, and more bloody stairs, his body throbbing every step of the way.
At last, he reached the familiar door to Gaius's chambers, he breathed a sigh of relief, firmly closing the front door and locking his own, before carefully removing the scratchy tunic. He wanted to set fire to it, the pain those things had caused him when he became negligent was annoying and excruciating.
Closing his eyes, he unfurled his wings, extending them fully so that they touched the walls of his room before relaxing. He ran his fingertips over the ridges and dips of where his wings began, feeling the grooves he carved there. Merlin shuddered at the memory of it; in his youth, he had tried to cut them off, the obvious symbols that he was not like the other kids in Ealdor, like the rest of the world. He'd supposed that –if he had to keep them hidden anyway– what was the point of keeping them? His mother had been horrified when she'd seen him, standing in his room with an old kitchen knife, awkwardly trying to reach the cartilage that held them there. Afterwards, when the blood had been cleaned and his wounds wrapped, Hunith sat him down and explained to him that it was not a bad thing to have wings. Yes, it marked him as different, but also special and powerful.
In earlier days, people born with them were cherished and often had them out, as it was a symbol of status and importance, a symbol that they had magic.
But this did little to reassure Merlin in the current times, as they were now symbols of murderers and evil; to have wings was an ill omen.
-
The first time he had cut his wings was not his last. A few years later he attempted again, only to be stopped by Will this time. Will had found him in the woods by the stream, their usual fishing or hang-out spot in Ealdor, holding a sharpened blade surrounded by small tufts of plume.
He had had a different approach than Merlin's mother; instead of calming and soft, Will had come off rough and unfiltered. Basically, telling him he was a stupid git and if he ever thought about it again he'd chop off his—
For the next few years, he had never once thought of it again. It wasn't bad or uncomfortable to hide his wings, it was simply what one did. But every now and then, they began to itch, malt, or need cleaning. Merlin would have to hide himself away and tend to the maintenance, plucking, preening, and smoothing of the damaged feathers and realigning all the barbs and vanes to sit straight. It was tedious work, partially because as his wings grew, it became harder and harder to reach the back.
Usually, he would ask Will or his mother to do it for him. But now he just had himself, and being the stubborn boy he was, when Merlin first came to Camelot he attempted to preen his back feathers unaided, but to his frustration, his wings were much bigger and longer than his arms. After much deliberation and tears of helplessness, he'd turned to Gaius. The old man thankfully didn't ask questions about his scars, just held his silent demeanour as he went about the task as he always had with any other patient.
Months later he'd asked how Gaius did his own wings, and if Merlin could help him in the same way. The physician shook his head sadly, explaining that, after the purge, Uther accepted his magic on the condition that Gaius never used it again and that his wings were amputated, a clear sign of where his loyalties lay. Merlin was horrified and felt more alone than ever.
If even his only magical confidant in this city didn't have wings, he might just be the only one in all of Camelot.
But when he came to Camelot and Will died, Merlin had succumbed again. If he removed them then he wouldn't be at risk of being discovered, he wouldn't have to hide, constantly upkeep the things on his back that served no real purpose to him other than irritation.
This time, neither his mother nor Will was there to talk him down, but when he drew the sharp dagger towards the wings he stopped, thinking about Will's and his mother's words.
Merlin felt like he would be betraying them, despite feeling so alone and isolated from everyone else. He couldn't bear to see his mother's sad face, imagining feeling Will's judging gaze in the air if either ever found out.
So he gently put down the blade, stashing it away in his drawer, and he did his best to never think about it again.
Now he sat in his small cot, tediously preening and oiling his feathers so that they lay smooth and shone. He would wait for Gaius to do the rest when he got back for dinner, not trusting himself to use magic where he could not see, but until then he would have to sit in discomfort as the last few feathers remained askew and dusty.
-
A week later Merlin was walking towards Uther's personal dining hall, where he tended to hold private functions or extremely confidential and important meetings. It also had the added benefit that it was Merlin's least favourite room.
As he entered the horrid place, he had to avert his gaze immediately, for there, at the top of the hall, were a pair of brilliant kingfisher wings. Pinned in a spread position in the prime spot over Uther's "throne" (which he apparently needed in every room). A few more sets were lining the walls, smaller but still large enough to evoke a gasp or awe-inspiring look, each with a different bloody story the king managed to tell every guest who asked, Merlin assumed the story to be greatly exaggerated and in favour of the king.
The first time he'd entered the vast hall he'd visibly paled, stumbling with the sudden horror and anxiety, Gaius was thankfully with him and diverse his attention, and even Arthur had not teased him about his reaction, simply making sure he attended this room as little as possible. But what he came to realise after forcing himself to dissociate from the horrid room, was that he was not even normal amongst magic users.
In Ealdor he'd seen nary a sorcerer or warlock, even a Druid was hard to come across. But the few he'd seen in Esstir - where magic was allowed but held under royal control - did have wings, just not like his own. Of course, he knew his wings were bigger than the average magic user, signalling that his power was greater than their own, but he just assumed that he'd come across a certain type. But again, looking at the mounted wings, he was reminded just how much his own vastly outsized the others, even the grand pair that overlooked Uther's throne were slightly smaller.
He once asked if Gaius' hung in one of the halls, a trophy of his own self-sacrifice. But mercifully Uther hadn't felt the need to torture his old friend with his own dismembered limbs tacked onto the walls.
As Merlin continued on his path to Arthur's side, he did his best to ignore the image of his own wings spread out, mounted to a wall for kings and lords to marvel at, and noticed not for the first time he saw just how vastly he differed from the typical magic user, his wings expanding to represent the power within him, his uniqueness, his isolation.
The prince glanced at him as he came to stand behind his chair, not daring to glare or smirk at him when his father held a meeting in this room. But Merlin could feel his annoyance at being late and also relief at not being alone during Uther's meeting (rant).
As Uther droned on about evil and purging the lands, Merlin drifted, his mind wandering off to menial tasks and daydreams. All the while the king continued to discuss the threats to the kingdom, emphasizing the importance of eliminating anyone with magical abilities. Merlin's eyes flickered towards the wings mounted on the wall, a chilling reminder of the consequences he faced if his secret were ever revealed.
"-My son, Prince Arthur, is to lead the group to the mountains." Merlin's attention snapped back to the conversation at the mention of Arthur.
"Yes, father." He dutifully spoke, not giving away if he actually agreed with the king or not.
"Then it's settled, in one month you and your men will depart." He clasped his hands together, "You are all dismissed."
Merlin didn't know what this trip was even about, an educated guess told him it would either be about sorcerers (it always seemed to be sorcerers) or some power play over money or land, but he knew that regardless of the reason, he would be going too.
Merlin sighed internally; great, he was now off to camp in the woods for Gods-knows-how-long, tasked not only with caring for Arthur but also for the knights.
-
Before he and Arthur were to leave, Merlin decided he should stretch and preen his wings as much as possible before the upcoming restrictions, maybe once a week or so until the trip. In between bidding Arthur goodnight and his own sleep, he found quiet moments he could steal away to tend to his wings. He would find a secluded spot, away from prying eyes, and let his wings unfurl. With careful movements, he'd preen each feather, ensuring they were in perfect condition. The rhythmic sound of his wings rustling continued for a half hour or so, less when he had Gaius's help.
He hoped with the meticulous and constant grooming of them, he wouldn't have too much trouble during the trip. It would be difficult to find moments to himself without the presence of another person, and he really didn't want to walk around in pain and irritation for days on end.
-
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and Camelot's grounds became cloaked in shadows, Merlin felt the need to stretch and strengthen his wings. With a quick glance around to ensure no one was watching, he made his way to the edge of Camelot's boundaries. The cool night air embraced him as he leapt into the sky, his wings catching the wind.
Merlin soared through the darkness, the moonlight illuminating the landscape below. As he glided over the forests and fields, as was his routine, he spotted flickering torches and red capes.
Curious, he flew closer, wondering what Camelot's men were doing out in the wilderness. But then, in the distance, he saw Arthur. The prince stood tall, his silhouette outlined against the night sky.
From the small campsite and horses he saw not far from Arthur's position, and the dead rabbits hanging from his belt, Merlin deduced the prince had gone on a late-night ill-advised excursion.
Arthur - the idiot - had gone off on a hunt without him.
He clenched his jaw in annoyance at Arthur's actions. Can the prat not stay away from danger for more than two days?
Apparently not, as Merlin soon saw movement in the tree line, slowly circling the unsuspecting men, still walking through the undergrowth looking for poor woodland creatures.
He watched as the prince and men ventured further into the forest, moonlight reflecting off his light chainmail, blissfully unaware of the bandits who crept through the shadows around him. He should never have gone hunting without Merlin, or all his knights - not the two men he'd brought along.
Merlin tracked him from the skies, a silent guardian over the unfolding peril, watching as the bandits closed in. He hoped that the two knights accompanying Arthur were skilled enough to fend off the threat. However, with the sheer numbers and stealth in which the attackers moved, it seemed unlikely. As Merlin watched, he saw the first man give the signal, then all hell broke loose. There were a series of battle cries from the forest, the crunch of leaves and twigs beneath heavy boots as the armed men surged forward, advancing on the unprepared prince and knights.
In the moonlit forest, a glint of light caught Merlin's eye as Arthur's sword was withdrawn, dancing through the air attempting to fend off the ambush, slashing away at the attackers. The knights were doing their best alongside him to hold off men who far outnumbered them. But even as the fight raged on, Merlin could tell it was a losing battle. Quickly, the sheer number of opponents outweighed Arthur's skill and agility, moonlight reflecting off Arthur's sword, stained with crimson and moonlight contrasting against the dark forest.
Merlin did what he could from his position above, subtly moving tree branches and felling enemies when the light hid them from view, but there was only so much he could do without revealing himself.
Merlin's heart stopped when Arthur's pained cry rang out—the unfortunate consequence of a well-placed blow to his shoulder. The weak spot caused the rest to swarm around the prince. Merlin knew there was nothing he could do as the attackers closed in, outnumbering and overpowering the crown prince. Desperation seized Merlin as he realized there was only one course of action left: intervention.
Gathering his courage, Merlin descended with outstretched wings, heading straight for Arthur. The second he landed, it was like a war zone. Men ran at him, undeterred by his sudden appearance, cutting at him with swords and axes, slicing at his wings, but he held them all back with his power. He made sure to stand in front of Arthur, shielding him with his body as well as to not let him see his face.
With a sweeping motion of his wings, raw magic surged forth, a silent wave cutting through the enemy ranks with lethal precision, the tsunami-like wave crashing over the forest with silent lethality.
All was deathly silent for a moment in shock, those who survived warily glancing at their dead comrades and the shadowy figure standing over the prince. Apparently, this was enough for some, instantly turning heel and fleeing into the undergrowth, while others stayed in the hopes of killing the crown prince but were quickly cut down by the knights.
In the ensuing panic, Merlin retreated, knowing that the men and Arthur could handle the few stragglers, desperately hoping Arthur hadn't glimpsed his face. He soared higher and faster, praying to whatever deity would listen that his intervention had gone unnoticed, or at least his identity.
He internally cursed Arthur for going out without warning him. The prat really wouldn't last a day without him.
-A-
He could tell it was a losing battle, the impromptu trip to the forest turning into a nightmare. The clash of swords and the desperate shouts of his knights echoed through the moonlit forest. Arthur's sword gleamed with blood with each flick of his wrist, but even his skill couldn't compensate for the overwhelming numbers closing in.
As he prepared for the worst, a flurry of feathers consumed his gaze, flashes of light and inky blackness swirled, momentarily obscuring his view. Through the wing-shaped gaps, he glimpsed something, but it was gone too quickly to decipher who or what it was. The yelling and commotion around him increased tenfold as the newcomer fought back, shielding him from the chaos.
Arthur strained to focus, his eyes darting between the approaching bandits and the mysterious figure battling on his behalf. The chaos seemed to part around this unexpected ally, creating a temporary sanctuary within the battle.
Despite the relief of assistance, Arthur's mind raced, trying to make sense of the unfolding situation. Who was this angelic saviour, and why had they intervened?
The moonlight flickered over his strained features as he observed the mysterious figure, gratitude and curiosity mixing with the urgency of the ongoing struggle. He clutched at his wounded arm as the battle raged around him, doing his best to staunch the bleeding with the torn hem of his tunic. He cursed himself as he did so; it had been stupid, idiotic, to go off practically unprotected and unarmed. But he had been itching to do something, and with no Merlin to talk him out of it, he went. Gods, Merlin was going to rip his head off when he returned, perhaps even more than his father would.
When all the bandits had been scattered in an unexplained wave of silent power seemingly coming from the figure, the thing retreated, escaping upwards in a flurry of flapping wings, leaving Arthur and the knights to regroup in the bloody aftermath.
Arthur admitted that they had to return to the palace immediately lest there be another attack, but during the battle, Sir Harris, one of the men he had taken with him, had suffered a deadly blow and was bleeding out fast.
-M-
After Merlin had calmed down he landed near Camelot's borders and snuck back in, knowing that the prince was going to need medical care for his arm as well as the men he took with him. So shouldering his wings and hiding them once more Merlin slipped back into Gaius's chambers and got to work preparing for the eventual arrivals.
An hour or so later the door burst open revealing an unconscious knight flanked by the prince himself and some guards. Without question he got to work ordering about the men, having Sir Harris placed on the cot and sending the guards carrying him away.
He had woken up Gaius a half hour before and now the physician flitted about the knight, forcing various potions and liquids down his throat and pasting herbs onto his skin. Meanwhile, Merlin focused on Arthur, the prince's face was white, whether from the diminishing adrenaline or the pain he couldn't tell, but silently Merlin led him to a seat far from Harris, dutifully taking off Arthur's chainmail.
He didn't speak to him or ask what had happened, simply grabbed a bucket of water and began washing down the bloodied arm. They both knew when the sun arose in a few hours Uther would hear of the situation and unleash his rage on his son.
Arthur took Merlin's care without flinching away, his stony expression fixed on Harris's movements and groans as Gaius poked and prodded his injuries. Eyes downcast, Merlin continued to apply water, paste, and bandages to the prince's arm, hoping that he hadn't noticed that Merlin was at the battle.
-A-
Thankfully Merlin hadn't belittled his intelligence when he saw the wound, instead, the boy had dutifully attended him without a word.
But somehow that had made it worse, the silence making its way into his head and rerunning his failings.
Unfortunately, as he soon found out the next morning, the silence was better. His father's booming voice rang in his ears and around the room as he spoke to his son.
"YOU ARE EXPECTED TO LEAD A WAR PARTY, COMMANDING MEN TO BATTLE, HOW DO YOU EXPECT TO BE ABLE TO DO THAT OR FOR THE MEN TO BELIEVE IN YOU IF YOU ARE GOING OFF ON CHILDISH EXCURSIONS?!"
Arthur bowed his head submissively, taking his father's abuse. Merlin standing dutifully behind him biting his tongue.
"YOU ARE DAMN LUCKY THAT SIR HARRIS IS GOING TO BE OKAY, OR IT WILL BE A MAN'S BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS! I can't believe you've disappointed me like this Arthur," he finished, lowering his voice to an indifferent manner, words visibly cutting the prince.
"I am sorry father, it won't happen again."
"Be damn sure it doesn't," and with that the king swept out of the room, leaving his son and his servant in his wake.
Merlin's heart raced as he watched Arthur bow to his father, absorbing the harsh words thrown at him. He wanted to intervene, to defend Arthur from Uther's relentless criticism, but he knew better than to speak out. The king didn't even mention Arthur's health or his wounded arm, seemingly uninterested or unaware of his own son's injury. Merlin clenched his jaw in annoyance at the fact.
When Uther stormed out of the room, leaving behind a defeated prince, Merlin stepped forward. "Arthur, are you alright?" he asked, concern etched across his face.
"I'm fine, Merlin," Arthur replied tersely, avoiding eye contact. "Just go and attend to your duties."
-
As the moon rose high in the sky, casting a silvery glow through the windows of Arthur's chamber, Merlin busied himself with tending to Arthur's wound. The atmosphere was heavy with unspoken tension, the echoes of King Uther's stern words still lingering in the air.
Merlin carefully unwrapped the blood-stained bandages from Arthur's arm, revealing the angry red gash where the blade had struck him during the battle. His hands moved with practised ease, the soft glow of candlelight flickering across his determined features, cursing himself for not intervening sooner.
Arthur sat in silence, his mind consumed by thoughts of the mysterious man who had come to his rescue, the stranger whose bravery had shielded him from harm's way. He couldn't shake the image of the figure cloaked in shadows, his face obscured in the darkness, the wings...
The memory weighed heavily upon Arthur's heart, stirring emotions within him, gratitude mingled with fear for the figure who had dared to defy the laws in his defence; a Pendragon's defence.