Merlin traced the silvery line that ran across his upper arm and the left side of his chest.
He remembered the day well. The day when he had revealed his magic to Arthur. The little blue flame in his hand, the look on Arthur’s face. The shock, the horror, the hurt.
The next thing he knew was the pain flaring up in his left chest where Arthur struck him down.
For a few weeks he was somewhere between life and death, but magic hadn’t allowed him to die. So he kept existing, wandered the woods of Albion and helped with his magic where possible.
He wore the thick ugly scar Arthur’s sword had left as a reminder for his actions for a couple of years before he had performed the magic to reduce it to a line that was just slightly lighter than the colour of his skin.
If only he could heal the scar on his heart so easily.