Do You Ever Feel Cursed?

The wings appear one day and Arthur doesn’t know what to do about them. He spends a full minute gawping at them behind his head in his full-length mirror and thinks, absently, that he ought to call for Merlin and demand to know if this is somehow his fault. Arthur doubts that it is, though. Merlin’s more careful than that, and he’s been even more careful since Arthur told him he knew his secret.

He lifts a hand, hesitant, and reaches to touch his– the wings. The feathers are soft and downy like the first bird Arthur killed, on the first hunt his father took him on when he was a boy.

(They say you always remember your first and Arthur doesn’t think he’s ever going to forget the way it felt in his hands, impossibly light and so fragile it broke apart on the tip of an arrow.)

He runs his hand, gently, absently, up and down a single feather. It’s too soft, he thinks, too soft to belong to someone like him. Beautiful, too, though it’s not the kind of beauty Arthur’s used to, the kind that is elegant lines and fair hair and made-up faces. It’s the kind he recognises instinctively, pure and ragged and utterly, indescribably perfect. It’s the kind his father condemns every single day and the kind he extinguishes with a merciless, iron will.

Arthur withdraws his hand. He withdraws his hand and shuts his eyes and breathes, in and out and in and out before he opens his eyes again.

The wings are still there.

“Merlin!”

***

To his credit, Merlin doesn’t laugh. Arthur expected him to laugh. Merlin’s face is nearly as white as Arthur’s wings when he skids into the room and catches sight of them sprouting out of Arthur’s back, and he does not laugh.

“You’ve got-” Merlin breaks off to gape at him. “You’ve got wings, Arthur.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” Arthur retorts, but his tone isn’t anywhere near as biting as usual.

Merlin gapes at him some more until, finally, he asks, “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know, Merlin,” Arthur says, irritated. “It’s not like people just spontaneously grow wings every day, is it?”

“Well,” Merlin starts, and he’s smiling now, but Arthur isn’t in the mood for one of his tall tales.

“Can you–” He glares at the floor, arms folded across his bare chest. “Is there anything you can do? To fix it?” He looks up, searching Merlin’s face for an answer, but he finds only bewilderment.

“With what?”

Arthur levels his glare at Merlin this time. “You know what.”

“Oh,” Merlin says, eyes widening. “Um. I could try?”

Arthur gives a brisk nod of consent and Merlin raises his hand, hesitant. Arthur closes his eyes. He hears Merlin mumble something that sounds more like jumbled consonants than actual words, feels him reach out to touch the wings, and then–

Nothing.

Arthur doesn’t open his eyes. Merlin doesn’t remove his hand.

“I’m sorry, Arthur.”

“It’s fine.” Arthur’s voice is brisk and careless and nothing like the churning feeling in his gut. “I wasn’t expecting much from you, incompetent as you are.”

Merlin doesn’t smile, doesn’t even roll his eyes. “It must be powerful magic,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “I could ask Gaius, see if he knows–”

“No,” Arthur says fiercely, so fiercely Merlin looks startled. “I–he can’t know, Merlin, nobody can know. I’m–this is–I’m an abomination.”

Merlin’s hand stills where it’s been stroking Arthur’s left wing. “Arthur,” he says softly, and Arthur closes his eyes against the pity etched in every line of his face.

“If he asks,” Arthur says eventually, “tell my father I’ve ridden out for the day and given you the day off.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows. “A day off? He’ll never believe me,” he says, his voice deliberately light.

Arthur swipes at him, twisting so Merlin’s hand falls away from his body, but he’s smiling when Merlin leaves the room.

***

Being confined to his room is not an experience Arthur ever particularly enjoys. He’s restless, alternating between pacing back and forth and perching on his bed, head cradled in his hands. The wings beat periodically like they’re trying to lift him off the ground, and the sound of feathers flapping in the breeze is starting to drive him insane.

(It would be easier if they weren’t so beautiful, so innocent. Arthur could cope with it if the wings were grotesque and ugly and wrong, but they’re not. They feel more right than anything Arthur has ever owned or done and Arthur hates them for it.)

When Merlin comes to check on him, Arthur’s curled up on his bed with his head buried in his knees, wings quivering behind his head.

“Gaius doesn’t know how to fix this either,” Merlin informs him, coming to a stop in front of the four-poster.

Arthur’s head snaps up, face contorted with horror. “Merlin, I told you not to–”

“I didn’t tell him anything about you,” Merlin is quick to assure him. “I just asked if he knew of any magic that could give a man wings.”

Arthur blows out a shaky breath, heart still pounding in his chest. “Wasn’t he suspicious?”

Merlin shakes his head. “It’s not like I don’t ask stupid questions all the time, is it?”

Arthur is inclined to agree, but he says nothing. Merlin comes to sit next to him on the bed, reaching out a hand, but Arthur flinches away before he can make contact. He doesn’t meet Merlin’s eyes when he stills.

“Maybe it’s just a temporary thing,” Merlin suggests, nudging Arthur’s knee gently with his own. “You know, here today, gone tomorrow.”

“Maybe,” Arthur echoes. Merlin smiles, wide and impossibly bright, and for a moment, Arthur lets himself hope.

***

The wings are still there when he wakes up the next morning. Arthur blinks hard, and waits for Merlin to arrive.

***

Merlin doesn’t look surprised when he walks in and sees Arthur hunched on the bed, wings drooping down by his ears.

“You look awful,” he says, matter-of-fact, placing the food he fetched from the kitchen at the end of Arthur’s bed. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

Arthur raises his head to glare balefully at him. “I can’t lie on my back and I can’t lie on either of my sides and when I lie on my front, the wings beat so loudly it feels like they can hear it all the way out in Mercia. What the hell do you think?”

Merlin winces. “Right. I, um, I brought you breakfast?” Arthur doesn’t stop glaring at him and Merlin sighs. “What do you want me to tell Uther?”

Arthur shrugs. “Tell him I fell ill after the ride yesterday, I don’t know. Use your brains.”

Merlin smiles. “I’ve been reliably informed I don’t have any.” There’s a beat, then: “He won’t care, you know.”

“What are you talking about, Merlin?”

“Your father,” Merlin says softly, and Arthur looks away. “He’d probably have the whole kingdom on red alert. He’d have his best men to find a way to turn you back.”

Arthur swallows, hard, and shakes his head. He’s seen the look in his father eyes when faced with magic, with sorcery. He doesn’t ever want his father to look at him like that, ever.

“Tell him I’m sick,” he says, his voice harsher than he intended it to be. “Tell him I’m sick and contagious and under no circumstances should I be disturbed by anyone other than you.”

Merlin sighs, but he gives a resigned nod and says, “Yes, sire,” before he leaves, shutting the door gently behind him.

***

It’s five days after the wings appeared that Arthur snaps. He throws down the book he was trying in vain to read and jumps to his feet, the wings quivering as he storms over to his armour and draws up his sword. Gritting his teeth, he raises it above his head and brings it crashing down over the nubs that join the wings to his back.

It hurts so much he bites into his lip to keep from crying out but he only lifts the sword again and keeps going. Arthur bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and the pain is excruciating, like being ripped apart from the inside, but still the wings stay. He sobs, the sound wrenched from his throat, and keeps hacking until finally, finally, there’s a muffled thud as the wings hits the ground. His knees buckle in relief and he sinks to the ground, still clutching the sword in his hands.

The pain is like fire now, burning out of the stump on his back, and when the darkness comes to cloak him in its warmth, Arthur goes willingly.

***

“Arthur, you’ll never guess what I– Arthur!”

Arthur’s crumpled in a heap in the middle of his room in a pool of his own blood (I’m going to have to clean that up later, Merlin thinks distantly) with only crimson red stubs where his wings should be. His sword, feathers sticking to the blood coating the edges, is lying on the ground in front of him.

Merlin guesses what happened, of course he does, and he curses Arthur with every foul word he knows even as the tears stream unbidden from his eyes. Dropping the stack of books he’s carrying, he crouches next to Arthur’s body and puts his hands on the grotesque stumps on Arthur’s back. He recites every healing spell he knows and more besides and when none of them work, when Arthur still doesn’t move, he whispers, “Come on you royal stupid prat,” and, “You don’t get to die on me, not now, not here,” and, “Please, I’ll do anything you want, Arthur please.”

Arthur doesn’t move. Merlin lifts a hand to wipe his eyes, smearing blood and tears across his cheeks.

“You idiot,” he manages, voice cracking in the middle. “I found a spell, it was going to help, I was going to help you, but you had to take matters into your own hands, didn’t you? You had to go and hack them off. With your bloody sword, of all things, I mean, really.”

He’s quiet for a few moments, eyes squeezed shut against the place where Arthur isn’t.

“Was it that bad?” he asks eventually, his voice hoarse from ranting and raving. He gazes down at Arthur’s body, half-wishing he could see his face, look in his eyes and demand to know why. “Was it really worth–”

He frowns. Arthur’s wings are lying abandoned on the floor. Merlin didn’t notice them before, too fixated on Arthur’s broken body to see anything else, but he sees them now. They’re just as beautiful as they were on Arthur, even soaked in blood and shrivelled in on themselves.

Merlin thinks hmm and maybe and what if... and before he can talk himself out of it, he lifts the wings by the tips and replaces them carefully on top of the stumps on Arthur’s back. They slot perfectly into the ragged edges, and Merlin tries in vain to quash the sudden burst of hope, the thought that this could actually work.

Hands cupping Arthur’s wings, Merlin closes his eyes and whispers the strongest healing spell he knows. He calls on every ounce of magic burning in his veins and pours it into Arthur, into the smooth line circling the nub of his wings. He doesn’t dare open his eyes, not even to peek, just in case, just keeps chanting and chanting and chanting and–

–there’s a sound, almost like a crack. Merlin stumbles on the spell, swears and starts again. He keeps going until the bones beneath his hands start buzzing and tingling and he hears the sound again. This time, he doesn’t stop, but he lets himself open his eyes. Heart in his throat, he watches the pieces of bone knitting themselves together and the wings flexing and fluttering under his hands, glowing with translucent beauty.

When Arthur finally lets out a low, guttural groan, Merlin sobs in relief and collapses on top of him, arms curled around his hard, warm, living body.

“What?” Arthur snaps, wriggling to try and shove Merlin off him. “What is it, what happened?”

Merlin is too overwhelmed right now to give more of an answer than a happy sigh and a stupidly massive grin. He shifts off Arthur long enough to allow him to sit up but wraps his arms around him almost immediately and pulls him close. Arthur looks stunned, but bears the hug with surprisingly good grace for a few moments before he gently disentangles himself from Merlin’s grip.

“Merlin?” he asks, voice wavering with uncertainty. “Where are my wings?”

Merlin reaches over to pat the air above Arthur’s head. “I made them invisible,” he says softly. “I couldn’t get rid of them, the book I found said that wasn’t possible. Sorry.”

Arthur smiles, sudden and sweet, and it steals all the air from Merlin’s lungs. “Thank you,” he says, “thank you.” Merlin smiles back, before reaching over and smacking Arthur ‘round the head. “Ow!” Arthur glares at him, outraged. “What was that for?”

“Nearly killing yourself,” Merlin informs him coolly. “My job is hard enough without having to protect you from yourself as well as from people with nefarious plots.”

“Sorry,” Arthur mutters. “I didn’t mean to.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “What, you didn’t mean to hack your wings off with a sword or you didn’t mean to bleed to death all over the floor?”

Arthur grins, something wicked uncurling at the corners of his mouth. “Funny you should mention that, actually. There’s quite a lot of blood; you should probably start cleaning if you don’t want to be here all day.”

“But it’s all yours!” Merlin protests. “Why don’t you clean it up?”

“I have to talk to my father,” Arthur replies, and Merlin sobers quickly. “We have... things to discuss.”

“Good luck,” Merlin says softly, watching Arthur stride out of the room. The air shimmers a little when he moves, painting a familiar, ragged outline behind his head. Ducking his head, Merlin smiles and sets to work.