"Not Alone" - A Merlin/Arthur [Merlin] Oneshot
Title: Not Alone
Author: JLT (x-posted to my dreamwidth @ juxtapose) (lol multiple blog accounts)
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Merthur (what else?)
Summary: ANGST EVERYWHERE. Merlin’s broken, and Arthur’s there to pick up the pieces.
Disclaimer: I don’t own BBC Merlin … BBC does (GASP!)
He stumbles into the room, footsteps echoing loudly in the quiet. His vision is blurry with hot tears threatening to flood from behind his eyes, but he blinks them away almost as fast as they emerge, choking back the hurt.
“Merlin!” is Arthur’s booming voice nearby as he stands up from his desk, “Do I even want to know where you’ve been? All I do know is you haven’t been here, idiot, where you could’ve been tidying up my room.”
Merlin clears his throat and starts picking up scattered tunics and trousers, muttering, “I’m sorry, sire.”
“I should hope so.”
So Merlin busies himself with a scavenger hunt for Arthur’s clothing while the Prince prattles on about this and that. Merlin can’t bring himself to pay attention.
” … Merlin, are you even listening to me?”
The letter had been so formal. So unfeeling.
“Merlin.”
Merlin feels like vomiting.
“Merlin!”
Startled, Merlin drops the basket he’s holding and all the clothes he’d meticulously separated come tumbling out into a pile on the floor.
Arthur sighs agitatedly. “What the hell is wrong with you today?”
“Oh, no,” Merlin says in an almost-whisper, “I’ll clean it up.” The tears are coming again-fast-and Merlin’s not sure if he can stop them this time. He kneels down and starts placing Arthur’s garments in the basket again, his thoughts jumbled and clipped. I can’t let him see me like this.
He picks up the basket once again, avoiding Arthur’s gaze even though he can sense the other man staring at him curiously.
“Merlin.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“What’s the matter.”
The words sound a statement but the feeling behind them is an expression of concern. Merlin has never denied Arthur anything, but he’s afraid of what will happen should he give an answer.
So he puffs out his chest, forces a grin, and says, “I’m fine.”
“You can stop your attempts at looking chipper; you just look as if you’ve got a twist in your trousers,” Arthur says flatly, stepping closer to Merlin, “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Merlin chooses to ignore Arthur’s frank comment about his trousers and instead wonders how he always manages to see right through Merlin.
Merlin is translucent, fragile. And when he is ready to break, Arthur always seems to know, and in his own way, helps put Merlin’s pieces back together. Oftentimes he doesn’t even realize it. But the fact remains that Arthur is Merlin’s purpose.
And now more than ever, Arthur is Merlin’s everything.
Merlin can’t bring himself to speak. His eyes burn, and he closes them, letting a tear slip through the wall of his lashes and trickle down his face. No. No, no, no, no …
“Merlin?”
Arthur’s voice is soft, now. Gentle. Merlin thinks briefly that it doesn’t suit him as he smudges the stray tear away. But then his thoughts return to the letter, with its ugly scrawled words and terrible truths plastered in ink on tattered paper.
“Merlin,” Arthur says again, “You will tell me what’s going on-”
“My mother is dead!” he shouts, and the silence that rings through the room is almost enough to drive Merlin mad, to beg and plead for it to go away, to leave him be, because it’s all too much.
“My mother is dead,” he repeats, quieter, his voice wading through the thick stillness in the room. “I received the letter a short while ago. I wasn’t told she was ill. Gaius said by the description it was incurable.” Saying it out loud makes it all the more real, and Merlin clutches the sides of the basket in his hands until his knuckles turn white to keep from crumbling.
He wonders if Arthur thinks him a coward.
He wonders if Arthur will brush this all off, and send Merlin on his way. Merlin sort of hopes that he will.
For the first time all afternoon, Merlin meets Arthur’s gaze, and wishes he hadn’t. The man’s eyes are full of compassion like Merlin has never seen before, fierce like their piercing blueness.
No, Merlin thinks, it wasn’t supposed to happen this way. He’s not supposed to look at me like that.
So Merlin looks down again, only to find that Arthur has gripped the basket of clothes firmly in his own hands, tugging it out of Merlin’s grasp gently and placing it on the floor.
“Merlin,” Arthur says for the umpteenth time, and before Merlin can even try to muster anything to say in reply, he feels the other man’s arms wrap tightly around his shoulders, pulling Merlin against his chest. Merlin breathes in the combination of fresh grass and a bit of sweat and soap that is so familiarly Arthur, and hears the rumble of his voice: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry … “
And then Merlin falls to pieces. He burrows into the crook of Arthur’s neck, and all the thoughts and wishes and memories of Hunith, beautiful, sweet Hunith who taught him all he knows of what it means to have a genuine heart and a determined spirit, pile up against his throat until they are released in wretched cries.
Arthur says nothing, and does not let go of Merlin, who is clutching the sleeves of Arthur’s shirt with shaking hands.
“The letter.” Merlin’s words gasp for air to release them as he tries to control his sobs, “It said … my mother didn’t want me to know she was ill. She refused to have me come home. I could have been there with her … I could’ve helped her. It’s my fault-”
“It is not,” Arthur interjects firmly, “your fault. It couldn’t have been.”
“But maybe I could’ve saved her-”
“Your mother knew you cared for her, didn’t she?” Arthur interrupts again, and on Merlin’s slow nod, finishes, “Isn’t that what matters?”
Merlin sniffs against Arthur’s neck as the latter man goes on:
“Hunith was truly … a wonderful woman. And if there’s anything I understand from the short time in which I got to know her, it’s that she wanted what was best for you. What’s happened has happened, Merlin, and you can’t change it as much as you want to. I’d give … anything to see my mother again, too. Even just a glimpse.” There is sadness creeping in at the edges of his tone, but it is quickly replaced by the almost ever-present firmness in his voice: “All you can do is do well by her memory. Live for her.”
“But I don’t think I can do it,” Merlin cries, desperation tugging at his voice, “I’m alone, now.”
“Don’t be stupid, Merlin,” says Arthur, and Merlin feels the sensation of his breath against the side of his face, “You’re not alone. You won’t have to be.”
Merlin’s never heard Arthur talk this way before, let alone to Merlin himself, but the words, nonetheless, are a blanket covering Merlin in a comforting warmth despite the cold around him. For a while, they simply stand there in the middle of Arthur’s chambers, in a silence that is no longer full of hurt, but full of a promise of healing that is emphasized with every heartbeat pressed up against its counterpart, every deep breath helping to even out the staggered ones. Every broken piece retrieved.
“Do you want to know why?” Merlin says quietly when he finds his voice again, “Do you want to know why she didn’t send for me?”
Arthur looks down at Merlin expectantly, waiting for an answer.
Merlin looks up at Arthur, blue meets bluer. “Because … she believed my place is with you.”
A small smile tugs at Arthur’s lips then, and he says, “I think she is quite right about that. Don’t you?”
Merlin casts his eyes up for a moment, imagining his mother, and remembering Arthur’ words.
Live for her.
And then Merlin realizes that Arthur still hasn’t let go of him, and that the bitter cold now seems just a little bit warmer with the Prince’s arms and words and heart holding him, he thinks Hunith, in her infinite wisdom, had been quite right, indeed.
Author: JLT (x-posted to my dreamwidth @ juxtapose) (lol multiple blog accounts)
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Merthur (what else?)
Summary: ANGST EVERYWHERE. Merlin’s broken, and Arthur’s there to pick up the pieces.
Disclaimer: I don’t own BBC Merlin … BBC does (GASP!)
He stumbles into the room, footsteps echoing loudly in the quiet. His vision is blurry with hot tears threatening to flood from behind his eyes, but he blinks them away almost as fast as they emerge, choking back the hurt.
“Merlin!” is Arthur’s booming voice nearby as he stands up from his desk, “Do I even want to know where you’ve been? All I do know is you haven’t been here, idiot, where you could’ve been tidying up my room.”
Merlin clears his throat and starts picking up scattered tunics and trousers, muttering, “I’m sorry, sire.”
“I should hope so.”
So Merlin busies himself with a scavenger hunt for Arthur’s clothing while the Prince prattles on about this and that. Merlin can’t bring himself to pay attention.
” … Merlin, are you even listening to me?”
The letter had been so formal. So unfeeling.
“Merlin.”
Merlin feels like vomiting.
“Merlin!”
Startled, Merlin drops the basket he’s holding and all the clothes he’d meticulously separated come tumbling out into a pile on the floor.
Arthur sighs agitatedly. “What the hell is wrong with you today?”
“Oh, no,” Merlin says in an almost-whisper, “I’ll clean it up.” The tears are coming again-fast-and Merlin’s not sure if he can stop them this time. He kneels down and starts placing Arthur’s garments in the basket again, his thoughts jumbled and clipped. I can’t let him see me like this.
He picks up the basket once again, avoiding Arthur’s gaze even though he can sense the other man staring at him curiously.
“Merlin.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“What’s the matter.”
The words sound a statement but the feeling behind them is an expression of concern. Merlin has never denied Arthur anything, but he’s afraid of what will happen should he give an answer.
So he puffs out his chest, forces a grin, and says, “I’m fine.”
“You can stop your attempts at looking chipper; you just look as if you’ve got a twist in your trousers,” Arthur says flatly, stepping closer to Merlin, “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Merlin chooses to ignore Arthur’s frank comment about his trousers and instead wonders how he always manages to see right through Merlin.
Merlin is translucent, fragile. And when he is ready to break, Arthur always seems to know, and in his own way, helps put Merlin’s pieces back together. Oftentimes he doesn’t even realize it. But the fact remains that Arthur is Merlin’s purpose.
And now more than ever, Arthur is Merlin’s everything.
Merlin can’t bring himself to speak. His eyes burn, and he closes them, letting a tear slip through the wall of his lashes and trickle down his face. No. No, no, no, no …
“Merlin?”
Arthur’s voice is soft, now. Gentle. Merlin thinks briefly that it doesn’t suit him as he smudges the stray tear away. But then his thoughts return to the letter, with its ugly scrawled words and terrible truths plastered in ink on tattered paper.
“Merlin,” Arthur says again, “You will tell me what’s going on-”
“My mother is dead!” he shouts, and the silence that rings through the room is almost enough to drive Merlin mad, to beg and plead for it to go away, to leave him be, because it’s all too much.
“My mother is dead,” he repeats, quieter, his voice wading through the thick stillness in the room. “I received the letter a short while ago. I wasn’t told she was ill. Gaius said by the description it was incurable.” Saying it out loud makes it all the more real, and Merlin clutches the sides of the basket in his hands until his knuckles turn white to keep from crumbling.
He wonders if Arthur thinks him a coward.
He wonders if Arthur will brush this all off, and send Merlin on his way. Merlin sort of hopes that he will.
For the first time all afternoon, Merlin meets Arthur’s gaze, and wishes he hadn’t. The man’s eyes are full of compassion like Merlin has never seen before, fierce like their piercing blueness.
No, Merlin thinks, it wasn’t supposed to happen this way. He’s not supposed to look at me like that.
So Merlin looks down again, only to find that Arthur has gripped the basket of clothes firmly in his own hands, tugging it out of Merlin’s grasp gently and placing it on the floor.
“Merlin,” Arthur says for the umpteenth time, and before Merlin can even try to muster anything to say in reply, he feels the other man’s arms wrap tightly around his shoulders, pulling Merlin against his chest. Merlin breathes in the combination of fresh grass and a bit of sweat and soap that is so familiarly Arthur, and hears the rumble of his voice: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry … “
And then Merlin falls to pieces. He burrows into the crook of Arthur’s neck, and all the thoughts and wishes and memories of Hunith, beautiful, sweet Hunith who taught him all he knows of what it means to have a genuine heart and a determined spirit, pile up against his throat until they are released in wretched cries.
Arthur says nothing, and does not let go of Merlin, who is clutching the sleeves of Arthur’s shirt with shaking hands.
“The letter.” Merlin’s words gasp for air to release them as he tries to control his sobs, “It said … my mother didn’t want me to know she was ill. She refused to have me come home. I could have been there with her … I could’ve helped her. It’s my fault-”
“It is not,” Arthur interjects firmly, “your fault. It couldn’t have been.”
“But maybe I could’ve saved her-”
“Your mother knew you cared for her, didn’t she?” Arthur interrupts again, and on Merlin’s slow nod, finishes, “Isn’t that what matters?”
Merlin sniffs against Arthur’s neck as the latter man goes on:
“Hunith was truly … a wonderful woman. And if there’s anything I understand from the short time in which I got to know her, it’s that she wanted what was best for you. What’s happened has happened, Merlin, and you can’t change it as much as you want to. I’d give … anything to see my mother again, too. Even just a glimpse.” There is sadness creeping in at the edges of his tone, but it is quickly replaced by the almost ever-present firmness in his voice: “All you can do is do well by her memory. Live for her.”
“But I don’t think I can do it,” Merlin cries, desperation tugging at his voice, “I’m alone, now.”
“Don’t be stupid, Merlin,” says Arthur, and Merlin feels the sensation of his breath against the side of his face, “You’re not alone. You won’t have to be.”
Merlin’s never heard Arthur talk this way before, let alone to Merlin himself, but the words, nonetheless, are a blanket covering Merlin in a comforting warmth despite the cold around him. For a while, they simply stand there in the middle of Arthur’s chambers, in a silence that is no longer full of hurt, but full of a promise of healing that is emphasized with every heartbeat pressed up against its counterpart, every deep breath helping to even out the staggered ones. Every broken piece retrieved.
“Do you want to know why?” Merlin says quietly when he finds his voice again, “Do you want to know why she didn’t send for me?”
Arthur looks down at Merlin expectantly, waiting for an answer.
Merlin looks up at Arthur, blue meets bluer. “Because … she believed my place is with you.”
A small smile tugs at Arthur’s lips then, and he says, “I think she is quite right about that. Don’t you?”
Merlin casts his eyes up for a moment, imagining his mother, and remembering Arthur’ words.
Live for her.
And then Merlin realizes that Arthur still hasn’t let go of him, and that the bitter cold now seems just a little bit warmer with the Prince’s arms and words and heart holding him, he thinks Hunith, in her infinite wisdom, had been quite right, indeed.