aimsir
Title: aimsir
Rating: G
Word Count: 831
Warning: Character Death
A/N: The title and basic thread of this story comes from the book 'Irish Nouns: A Reference Guide' by Andrew Carnie, which I stumbled upon completely by accident while browsing my universities E-Book Library. 'Aimsir' is listed as meaning time/weather.
Time and weather are two separate things. Sometimes they work together, gently wearing down a mountain till it turns to dust, reshaping the landscape into something new and wonderful. Sometimes they work against one another, the rain falling or sun shining too long or to quickly, making quick work of it, and destroying the world with floods and fires. But they are two separate things, Weather and Time.
Time was never Merlin’s friend, slightly off kilter with the rest of the world as he was. He never wore a watch, after the first few, because he’d lose them, or they’d break. They never did him any good, regardless. Merlin doesn’t even think in Time, not really - he thinks in Weather. Weather is less impersonal, more alive, and Merlin thinks sometimes that it reflects his moods, or maybe his moods reflect the weather, because they often coincide. No hour of the day or night has ever done that for him. He doesn’t think it could. He never remembers how old he was, or whether it was morning or afternoon when he looks back at his life, but he always remembers how he felt, and he always remembers the Weather.
It’s bucketing down the day he first runs into Arthur outside the Laundromat, knocking him and his freshly cleaned clothes flying. In his haste to get inside and out of the downpour, Merlin hadn’t really looked where he was going. He ended up re-washing all of Arthur’s clothes for him, as well as his own, while Arthur sat there making snippy comments and bossing him about.
The first night they slept together, it was snowing. Merlin didn’t have proper curtains, just a sheet slung haphazardly over the railing, not really covering anything. The light from the streetlamp outside was a warm yellow glow, and in the hazy after Merlin watched the flakes swirl and dance in silhouette. If it hadn’t been so horribly cheesy to call it such, he’d have described it all as magical.
When they moved in together, it was windy. It ruffled their hair and tugged at their clothes, reddened their cheeks and stole their breath. Made them glow in the way that only wind can. It made it easy, so easy, for Merlin to try and make amends for the dishevelment the wind had caused and get distracted, to push Arthur up against the wall just inside the door and lick into his mouth, kiss him soundly until his cheeks were glowing from something entirely different.
They often fought just before a lightning storm. Whether that was because the electricity in the air made Merlin short tempered and Arthur on edge, or because Merlin was angry and his excess energy was the spark that ignited the sky, Merlin didn’t know, and Arthur wouldn’t speculate. They always made up after, though, the violence of the storm and of their emotions fizzling out together.
Merlin liked it best when there was Thunder. He liked to go out to the bay and watch the waves crash, wild and untamed and untameable in the storm, but he didn’t much care for the rain. Arthur liked best the quiet fog of early morning, when the world was gently coming awake, and the spring showers that came and went in the blink of an eye. He found them just as refreshing as Merlin did his wild tempests.
It was grey and cold and lonely every day that Merlin drove Arthur to and from doctors’ appointments, visited him in hospital, and Merlin thought that was fitting. Grey and cold and lonely was just how he felt inside, forcing smiles he didn’t feel and being strong and supportive and positive, always positive, until he got back out to his car of an evening, alone, finally free to fall apart.
The sun is what they used to tell the time, back when people still lived in caves, fought dragons, cast spells. Merlin never much liked it, because he burnt too easily, but Arthur hadn’t minded it. He liked to bask in it on summer days, sun himself like a lizard, while Merlin had watched, appreciative of the shine it cast to Arthur’s hair, from the nearby shade of the plum tree in their back garden.
The day the sun comes back is the day their Time runs out. It breaks through the clouds almost the moment he’s gone, and it shines right on through the funeral, and for days, weeks after it keeps shining, making the world appear bright and cheerful and alive, and if Merlin could feel anything, anything at all, he thinks he might feel betrayed by that.
Time and Weather are two separate things. Sometimes they work together, and sometimes they work apart. Merlin doesn’t think in Time, he never really has. When he looks back, he doesn’t remember how old he was, or whether it was afternoon or night. He only remembers how he felt, only remembers the Weather. Merlin only remembers Arthur.
Rating: G
Word Count: 831
Warning: Character Death
A/N: The title and basic thread of this story comes from the book 'Irish Nouns: A Reference Guide' by Andrew Carnie, which I stumbled upon completely by accident while browsing my universities E-Book Library. 'Aimsir' is listed as meaning time/weather.
Time and weather are two separate things. Sometimes they work together, gently wearing down a mountain till it turns to dust, reshaping the landscape into something new and wonderful. Sometimes they work against one another, the rain falling or sun shining too long or to quickly, making quick work of it, and destroying the world with floods and fires. But they are two separate things, Weather and Time.
Time was never Merlin’s friend, slightly off kilter with the rest of the world as he was. He never wore a watch, after the first few, because he’d lose them, or they’d break. They never did him any good, regardless. Merlin doesn’t even think in Time, not really - he thinks in Weather. Weather is less impersonal, more alive, and Merlin thinks sometimes that it reflects his moods, or maybe his moods reflect the weather, because they often coincide. No hour of the day or night has ever done that for him. He doesn’t think it could. He never remembers how old he was, or whether it was morning or afternoon when he looks back at his life, but he always remembers how he felt, and he always remembers the Weather.
It’s bucketing down the day he first runs into Arthur outside the Laundromat, knocking him and his freshly cleaned clothes flying. In his haste to get inside and out of the downpour, Merlin hadn’t really looked where he was going. He ended up re-washing all of Arthur’s clothes for him, as well as his own, while Arthur sat there making snippy comments and bossing him about.
The first night they slept together, it was snowing. Merlin didn’t have proper curtains, just a sheet slung haphazardly over the railing, not really covering anything. The light from the streetlamp outside was a warm yellow glow, and in the hazy after Merlin watched the flakes swirl and dance in silhouette. If it hadn’t been so horribly cheesy to call it such, he’d have described it all as magical.
When they moved in together, it was windy. It ruffled their hair and tugged at their clothes, reddened their cheeks and stole their breath. Made them glow in the way that only wind can. It made it easy, so easy, for Merlin to try and make amends for the dishevelment the wind had caused and get distracted, to push Arthur up against the wall just inside the door and lick into his mouth, kiss him soundly until his cheeks were glowing from something entirely different.
They often fought just before a lightning storm. Whether that was because the electricity in the air made Merlin short tempered and Arthur on edge, or because Merlin was angry and his excess energy was the spark that ignited the sky, Merlin didn’t know, and Arthur wouldn’t speculate. They always made up after, though, the violence of the storm and of their emotions fizzling out together.
Merlin liked it best when there was Thunder. He liked to go out to the bay and watch the waves crash, wild and untamed and untameable in the storm, but he didn’t much care for the rain. Arthur liked best the quiet fog of early morning, when the world was gently coming awake, and the spring showers that came and went in the blink of an eye. He found them just as refreshing as Merlin did his wild tempests.
It was grey and cold and lonely every day that Merlin drove Arthur to and from doctors’ appointments, visited him in hospital, and Merlin thought that was fitting. Grey and cold and lonely was just how he felt inside, forcing smiles he didn’t feel and being strong and supportive and positive, always positive, until he got back out to his car of an evening, alone, finally free to fall apart.
The sun is what they used to tell the time, back when people still lived in caves, fought dragons, cast spells. Merlin never much liked it, because he burnt too easily, but Arthur hadn’t minded it. He liked to bask in it on summer days, sun himself like a lizard, while Merlin had watched, appreciative of the shine it cast to Arthur’s hair, from the nearby shade of the plum tree in their back garden.
The day the sun comes back is the day their Time runs out. It breaks through the clouds almost the moment he’s gone, and it shines right on through the funeral, and for days, weeks after it keeps shining, making the world appear bright and cheerful and alive, and if Merlin could feel anything, anything at all, he thinks he might feel betrayed by that.
Time and Weather are two separate things. Sometimes they work together, and sometimes they work apart. Merlin doesn’t think in Time, he never really has. When he looks back, he doesn’t remember how old he was, or whether it was afternoon or night. He only remembers how he felt, only remembers the Weather. Merlin only remembers Arthur.