Warning: Canon AU, angst.
Summary: Merlin loves the scars he can see, it's the ones he can't that torture him.
Word count: 248.
Merlin sits at the table, watching as Arthur pulls off his tunic and wanders around in only his sleep pants.
To Merlin, he looks beautiful. He looks like a king. The soft candle light bathes him in a golden glow, casting shadows over his sculpted body. Merlin often loses himself in staring at the perfection.
The tainted perfection – Merlin longs to run his tongue along each and every scar, the ones the dragon left, the ones the questing beast left and the many more. He is a true king, a warrior, his body marred by the marks of battle. The scars of justice they tell the tale of the king Arthur is and will become.
Merlin loves them, and knows tonight he’ll pay homage to them, kiss and tongue, and run his fingers along them – watch Arthur arch into the touch.
But it’s the other scars, the scars no one can see that torture Merlin. The scars he can’t heal with a salve and a bandage. The ones that lie underneath. The ones that wake Arthur in the middle of the night, trembling and shouting out, covered in sweat and clinging to Merlin. The ones that keep him up, the ones that shadow his beautiful blue eyes.
The scars of his father’s cutting words, the scars of men lost, the scars of all the innocents his father burned, the scars of all who starved to death because he killed a unicorn, the scars of Morgana’s betrayals – each and every one of them, the scars left by his father’s death, the scar left by yet another family member betraying him, and the deepest, most cutting one, the scar on his heart. The one Gwen left.