"Seasons" - A Merlin/Arthur [Merlin] Fanfic
Title: "Seasons"
Author: JLT (x-posted to my dreamwidth juxtapose
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating/Genre: PG-13 angst/fluff
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Merlin.
Here is a story of a love that was made in seasons.
The air is cold enough that every spoken word leaves puffs of condensation in its wake.
And Merlin, after preparing his master's horse for a ride out, cannot resist the temptation to gather some snow in his almost-numb hands and throw it at Arthur.
The latter, of course, responds by chasing Merlin around the courtyard shouting various insults for what seems like hours, until the two finally give into a collapse onto the piles of fluffy white, side by side.
"That was fun," Merlin says.
"Idiot," Arthur replies, smiling.
Arthur's left arm and Merlin's right overlap each other and their fingers touch. Neither pulls away.
This is winter, freezing cold except for the fiery friction of two together-hearts.
Arthur stumbles home with his sword dragging behind him, the pinks and purples of his bruises as bright as the pastel blossoms below him. Once again he has risked his life for the safety and security of Camelot's people, and once again Merlin stands in front of him with a damp towel and a furrowed brow.
"I'm fine," Arthur says even though he's not.
"Right," Merlin says even though he reaches out and gingerly touches a cut on Arthur's forehead anyway.
Arthur shrinks away from the touch. "Stop fussing, Merlin. I'm fine." He sits on his bed wearily and Merlin sits next to him, pressing the warm cloth to Arthur's wounds gently.
"Merlin."
"Oi! Sit still. I'm your servant, I'm supposed to do these sorts of things. I know you won't admit you're in pain but these wounds won't heal properly if we don't clean them first."
Arthur knows the concern in Merlin's voice has nothing to do with the fact that he is his servant, and Merlin knows that Arthur knows this.
So Arthur closes his eyes and lets Merlin brush his slender fingers against his tired skin, and there is a comfortable silence occasionally broken by a chirping bird or the tune of the breeze.
"Am I hurting you?" Merlin asks.
"No," Arthur replies, and it's his unsaid thank-you to the other man.
"Good," says Merlin," because whether you like it or not, we're going to sit here until I see fit. Gaius has trained me well."
"I'm the prince, if you recall. I decide when and where I sit." Arthur rolls his eyes and nudges Merlin's shoulder. "Stubborn."
"And so are you, as ever."
They exchange a grin. Merlin brushes a hand through Arthur's hair to pull it back and clean a cut, letting his fingers rest burrowed in blonde for a moment. Then, in sudden realization of his actions, he pulls away, his face glowing bright red. Arthur looks down at his hands for a moment before letting himself sneak a sideways glance at Merlin who he finds is looking at him, too; a shade of passionate blue.
"Should I go?" Merlin asks softly, "Let you rest?"
"No," Arthur says just a bit too quickly, "You can stay."
Merlin does.
This is spring, full of blushes and smiles that bloom like flowers.
The sun is hard and unsympathetic as it beats down heavily on Prince Arthur and his manservant. Arthur and his men have split up on a hunting trip, and Merlin trails along next to Arthur juggling all the Prince's equipment.
"How much farther?" asks Merlin.
"Oh, hush your whining. Just through these rocks here is a clearing."
Merlin tries to hide a groan. "Rocks?"
"Come along."
So they walk and walk, and Arthur stops only when he hears an oomph sound behind him.
On the ground is Merlin, bows and arrows and satchels strewn around him. His face is flushed bright red, his forehead beading with sweat. "Ow," he says simply.
Arthur snorts, unable to conceal his grin. "You look ridiculous, Merlin."
"It's hot!"
"Such a keen observation," is Arthur's snapping reply, but he extends his hand to the boy anyway.
Merlin sighs, wipes his brow with the sleeve of his arm and takes Arthur's sweaty hand in his own. His body isn't quite ready for the shock of standing, though, and he sways forward.
Two strong hands catch his arms before he falls, and Merlin looks up hazily at Arthur.
"Can't have you fainting, can we? You're in charge of all my things." His tone is serious but his expression is teasing. His touch lingers on Merlin for a second. Merlin doesn't mind.
They trudge through what seems to be some type of arch of rock and mud, and Merlin wonders briefly if Arthur actually knows where he's going.
His thoughts are interrupted as a loud grumbling sound is heard above, and before either man has any time to react, the large boulders begin to crumble above them.
Dust is thick in Merlin's eyes but he hears Arthur's yell of, "Merlin!" and the ground seems to tremble with the fall of the rocks.
He can just see the outline of Arthur's body, hunched over, and all he can think is He's hurt. He's hurt and the rocks keep falling; he could die. He's hurt.
So he extends his hand and shouts an incantation, and amongst all the falling gray is gold, freezing the stones in mid-fall.
The dust fades away to reveal Arthur's stricken face.
"Arthur," Merlin says slowly, "Step out of the way."
Arthur blinks, looks above him at the large rock that would have smashed open his skull but for Merlin's actions, and stumbles to the side. With another incantation the rocks fall with a crunching thud beside him.
There is silence, until:
"What . . . what did you do?" Arthur's voice is broken into confused fragments. "What . . . what the hell are you?!"
Merlin looks at Arthur, his eyes full of sincerity. "I think you know the answer to that question, Arthur." Despite the graveness of the situation, hope dances around him in the air, hope that Arthur could understand, or try to understand what Merlin has been trying tod o all along--keep the Prince safe.
He is barely able to finish his sentence before Arthur grabs onto the collar of his shirt, seething. "You have ten seconds," he says, each word dripping with anger, "to get a head start back to the castle. You will not speak to me. You will not even look at me. Get out of my sight."
"Arthur--"
"Get. out."
Merlin leaves.
This is summer, hot and sticky with lies and promises and betrayal left in the rubble.
They haven't spoken in months.
Merlin sometimes thinks that he'd rather Arthur have told his father about Merlin's secret, because often this--this nothingness--seems so much worse than burning at the stake.
Arthur will tell Merlin to clean his room or polish his armor. Merlin will do as he's told. But there is no sparkle in either man's eye, no nudge of affection or glance that seems to say everything without words. All of this is gone, because Merlin saved Arthur's life in the middle of the summer.
One night, Camelot is at war.
One night, Merlin waits and waits in Arthur's chambers as his hands tremble and his eyes blur because all he can think is Arthur is out there he could be hurt I can't let him get hurt.
He feels as if his very core is about to burst, that if he doesn't go out there and help the person whose destiny is entwined with his own he'll lose himself because Arthur is a part of him and always has been.
So when Arthur walks in, his spirit as battered as the body which carries it, Merlin lets his tears fall, full and wet.
Arthur tries aloofness as he says, "Why are you crying?"
But his attempts falter when he hears Merlin's reply as he attempts to smudge his tears away: "I thought we . . . " A deep breath. "I thought I lost you."
Arthur wants to say You already have lost me, but he refrains from doing so because a part of him can't help but think that maybe lost things can be found again if one tries hard enough.
He steps forward. "You lied to me," he says simply, "for years."
"I know."
"My father would have you executed without a second thought if he knew."
"I know," Merlin says again, "But you didn't tell him." Pause. "Why?"
"You know me by now, Merlin," Arthur replies, "You may have noticed I like doing things my way."
Merlin looks down at his hands. "Your way?"
"I never planned on telling him, Merlin. I've been taught all my life that magic is evil, but in the past few years I've seen so many exceptions to the rule I've lost count." Arthur rubs his eyes wearily. "And now, knowing all this time you've been . . . if it hadn't been for you I probably wouldn't be here. But it angers me that you couldn't trust me, that you had to lie to me--"
"You don't know how hard it was," Merlin interrupts, his voice cracking, "to hide this from you. I trust you with my life; I always have. It was never about not trusting you, Arthur. It was about you not trusting me."
Arthur finds Merlin's eyes again, and they are watery blue. "The fact is," he says, "I didn't tell my father because I don't want to lose you either, all right?" He sighs tiredly. "I can't lose you. You've managed to weasel your way into my life so I can't get you out, and I don't want to. It's like everytime I fall, everytime I'm unsure of myself, you're there, with your stupid grin and your encouraging words . . . " He trails off, biting his lip and looking away.
He feels the sensation of Merlin's fingers under his chin, lifting it to face him. "D'you think," Merlin says quietly, "we could start over?"
Arthur nods meekly. "I think I'd like that, yes."
So Merlin steps back, smooths down his shirt and clears his throat, and says, "Hi. I'm Merlin." He sticks out his hand. "You're a complete royal arse, and I'm the best servant you'll ever have."
"Is that so? Well. I'm Prince Arthur Pendragon, and if I'm a royal arse that must make you an utterly useless buffoon. But I suppose I'll put up with it."
"Prat."
"Idiot."
And Arthur takes Merlin's outstretched hand, and in a bold move, pulls him toward him.
Merlin falls into Arthur just as the leaves fall into the blades of browned grass in the court below. Arthur holds him close, resting his chin on the top of Merlin's head, closing his eyes.
This is autumn, made up of endings that transform into new beginnings for a servant and his Prince.
This is the story of a love that was made in seasons. And, in each snowfall and dew-dropped blossom and ray of sunlight and crisp breeze, is the ever-present humming of two hearts as one.
Author: JLT (x-posted to my dreamwidth juxtapose
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating/Genre: PG-13 angst/fluff
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Merlin.
Here is a story of a love that was made in seasons.
The air is cold enough that every spoken word leaves puffs of condensation in its wake.
And Merlin, after preparing his master's horse for a ride out, cannot resist the temptation to gather some snow in his almost-numb hands and throw it at Arthur.
The latter, of course, responds by chasing Merlin around the courtyard shouting various insults for what seems like hours, until the two finally give into a collapse onto the piles of fluffy white, side by side.
"That was fun," Merlin says.
"Idiot," Arthur replies, smiling.
Arthur's left arm and Merlin's right overlap each other and their fingers touch. Neither pulls away.
This is winter, freezing cold except for the fiery friction of two together-hearts.
Arthur stumbles home with his sword dragging behind him, the pinks and purples of his bruises as bright as the pastel blossoms below him. Once again he has risked his life for the safety and security of Camelot's people, and once again Merlin stands in front of him with a damp towel and a furrowed brow.
"I'm fine," Arthur says even though he's not.
"Right," Merlin says even though he reaches out and gingerly touches a cut on Arthur's forehead anyway.
Arthur shrinks away from the touch. "Stop fussing, Merlin. I'm fine." He sits on his bed wearily and Merlin sits next to him, pressing the warm cloth to Arthur's wounds gently.
"Merlin."
"Oi! Sit still. I'm your servant, I'm supposed to do these sorts of things. I know you won't admit you're in pain but these wounds won't heal properly if we don't clean them first."
Arthur knows the concern in Merlin's voice has nothing to do with the fact that he is his servant, and Merlin knows that Arthur knows this.
So Arthur closes his eyes and lets Merlin brush his slender fingers against his tired skin, and there is a comfortable silence occasionally broken by a chirping bird or the tune of the breeze.
"Am I hurting you?" Merlin asks.
"No," Arthur replies, and it's his unsaid thank-you to the other man.
"Good," says Merlin," because whether you like it or not, we're going to sit here until I see fit. Gaius has trained me well."
"I'm the prince, if you recall. I decide when and where I sit." Arthur rolls his eyes and nudges Merlin's shoulder. "Stubborn."
"And so are you, as ever."
They exchange a grin. Merlin brushes a hand through Arthur's hair to pull it back and clean a cut, letting his fingers rest burrowed in blonde for a moment. Then, in sudden realization of his actions, he pulls away, his face glowing bright red. Arthur looks down at his hands for a moment before letting himself sneak a sideways glance at Merlin who he finds is looking at him, too; a shade of passionate blue.
"Should I go?" Merlin asks softly, "Let you rest?"
"No," Arthur says just a bit too quickly, "You can stay."
Merlin does.
This is spring, full of blushes and smiles that bloom like flowers.
The sun is hard and unsympathetic as it beats down heavily on Prince Arthur and his manservant. Arthur and his men have split up on a hunting trip, and Merlin trails along next to Arthur juggling all the Prince's equipment.
"How much farther?" asks Merlin.
"Oh, hush your whining. Just through these rocks here is a clearing."
Merlin tries to hide a groan. "Rocks?"
"Come along."
So they walk and walk, and Arthur stops only when he hears an oomph sound behind him.
On the ground is Merlin, bows and arrows and satchels strewn around him. His face is flushed bright red, his forehead beading with sweat. "Ow," he says simply.
Arthur snorts, unable to conceal his grin. "You look ridiculous, Merlin."
"It's hot!"
"Such a keen observation," is Arthur's snapping reply, but he extends his hand to the boy anyway.
Merlin sighs, wipes his brow with the sleeve of his arm and takes Arthur's sweaty hand in his own. His body isn't quite ready for the shock of standing, though, and he sways forward.
Two strong hands catch his arms before he falls, and Merlin looks up hazily at Arthur.
"Can't have you fainting, can we? You're in charge of all my things." His tone is serious but his expression is teasing. His touch lingers on Merlin for a second. Merlin doesn't mind.
They trudge through what seems to be some type of arch of rock and mud, and Merlin wonders briefly if Arthur actually knows where he's going.
His thoughts are interrupted as a loud grumbling sound is heard above, and before either man has any time to react, the large boulders begin to crumble above them.
Dust is thick in Merlin's eyes but he hears Arthur's yell of, "Merlin!" and the ground seems to tremble with the fall of the rocks.
He can just see the outline of Arthur's body, hunched over, and all he can think is He's hurt. He's hurt and the rocks keep falling; he could die. He's hurt.
So he extends his hand and shouts an incantation, and amongst all the falling gray is gold, freezing the stones in mid-fall.
The dust fades away to reveal Arthur's stricken face.
"Arthur," Merlin says slowly, "Step out of the way."
Arthur blinks, looks above him at the large rock that would have smashed open his skull but for Merlin's actions, and stumbles to the side. With another incantation the rocks fall with a crunching thud beside him.
There is silence, until:
"What . . . what did you do?" Arthur's voice is broken into confused fragments. "What . . . what the hell are you?!"
Merlin looks at Arthur, his eyes full of sincerity. "I think you know the answer to that question, Arthur." Despite the graveness of the situation, hope dances around him in the air, hope that Arthur could understand, or try to understand what Merlin has been trying tod o all along--keep the Prince safe.
He is barely able to finish his sentence before Arthur grabs onto the collar of his shirt, seething. "You have ten seconds," he says, each word dripping with anger, "to get a head start back to the castle. You will not speak to me. You will not even look at me. Get out of my sight."
"Arthur--"
"Get. out."
Merlin leaves.
This is summer, hot and sticky with lies and promises and betrayal left in the rubble.
They haven't spoken in months.
Merlin sometimes thinks that he'd rather Arthur have told his father about Merlin's secret, because often this--this nothingness--seems so much worse than burning at the stake.
Arthur will tell Merlin to clean his room or polish his armor. Merlin will do as he's told. But there is no sparkle in either man's eye, no nudge of affection or glance that seems to say everything without words. All of this is gone, because Merlin saved Arthur's life in the middle of the summer.
One night, Camelot is at war.
One night, Merlin waits and waits in Arthur's chambers as his hands tremble and his eyes blur because all he can think is Arthur is out there he could be hurt I can't let him get hurt.
He feels as if his very core is about to burst, that if he doesn't go out there and help the person whose destiny is entwined with his own he'll lose himself because Arthur is a part of him and always has been.
So when Arthur walks in, his spirit as battered as the body which carries it, Merlin lets his tears fall, full and wet.
Arthur tries aloofness as he says, "Why are you crying?"
But his attempts falter when he hears Merlin's reply as he attempts to smudge his tears away: "I thought we . . . " A deep breath. "I thought I lost you."
Arthur wants to say You already have lost me, but he refrains from doing so because a part of him can't help but think that maybe lost things can be found again if one tries hard enough.
He steps forward. "You lied to me," he says simply, "for years."
"I know."
"My father would have you executed without a second thought if he knew."
"I know," Merlin says again, "But you didn't tell him." Pause. "Why?"
"You know me by now, Merlin," Arthur replies, "You may have noticed I like doing things my way."
Merlin looks down at his hands. "Your way?"
"I never planned on telling him, Merlin. I've been taught all my life that magic is evil, but in the past few years I've seen so many exceptions to the rule I've lost count." Arthur rubs his eyes wearily. "And now, knowing all this time you've been . . . if it hadn't been for you I probably wouldn't be here. But it angers me that you couldn't trust me, that you had to lie to me--"
"You don't know how hard it was," Merlin interrupts, his voice cracking, "to hide this from you. I trust you with my life; I always have. It was never about not trusting you, Arthur. It was about you not trusting me."
Arthur finds Merlin's eyes again, and they are watery blue. "The fact is," he says, "I didn't tell my father because I don't want to lose you either, all right?" He sighs tiredly. "I can't lose you. You've managed to weasel your way into my life so I can't get you out, and I don't want to. It's like everytime I fall, everytime I'm unsure of myself, you're there, with your stupid grin and your encouraging words . . . " He trails off, biting his lip and looking away.
He feels the sensation of Merlin's fingers under his chin, lifting it to face him. "D'you think," Merlin says quietly, "we could start over?"
Arthur nods meekly. "I think I'd like that, yes."
So Merlin steps back, smooths down his shirt and clears his throat, and says, "Hi. I'm Merlin." He sticks out his hand. "You're a complete royal arse, and I'm the best servant you'll ever have."
"Is that so? Well. I'm Prince Arthur Pendragon, and if I'm a royal arse that must make you an utterly useless buffoon. But I suppose I'll put up with it."
"Prat."
"Idiot."
And Arthur takes Merlin's outstretched hand, and in a bold move, pulls him toward him.
Merlin falls into Arthur just as the leaves fall into the blades of browned grass in the court below. Arthur holds him close, resting his chin on the top of Merlin's head, closing his eyes.
This is autumn, made up of endings that transform into new beginnings for a servant and his Prince.
This is the story of a love that was made in seasons. And, in each snowfall and dew-dropped blossom and ray of sunlight and crisp breeze, is the ever-present humming of two hearts as one.