Merlin Fanfiction: Fumbling in the Dark
Title: Fumbling in the Dark
Author: drjenny88
Warnings: Implied slash
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Merlin/Arthur
Summary: Arthur's been having nightmares and Merlin sits with him in the dark.
Disclaimer: The Merlin characters belong to the BBC and Shine. No copyright infringement or offense of any kind is intended.
Word Count: 1512
Author’s Note: Set at some indeterminate period in the Merlin-verse. Please R&R.
Fumbling in the Dark
Muffled moaning came from the direction of Arthur’s bed. Merlin waited; he was becoming accustomed now to the prince’s ways. Sure enough, there was a strangled yell, quickly suppressed even in sleep, and then Arthur was silent once more. Merlin settled back into the chair, returning his eyes to Gaius’ book of magic. He had been unsure as to the wisdom of bringing it, and indeed he hadn’t the first night, merely spending the evening in the chair by Arthur’s bedside, listening as the young prince’s breathing became slow and regular, waiting as Arthur fell asleep. Merlin hadn’t really known why he was there on the first night. He was awoken from his own slumber by the sound of Arthur’s nightmares, the other boy so clearly struggling against something and yet remaining as quiet as it was possible to be in the face of sheer terror; Merlin had been unnerved by Arthur’s stolidity, the realisation that Arthur really had been training to be King all his life, that these lessons could now never truly leave him, even in sleep when all his barriers ought to be down. But Arthur’s barriers would never be dropped; Uther had seen to that.
Tonight had been relatively easy, so far. Merlin hadn’t had to listen to Arthur’s frantic whispering, hadn’t had to watch the other boy tossing and turning, desperately caught in an embittered battle with his subconscious. Merlin hated to watch it, hated the suffering he sometimes caught in Arthur’s features, the only part of him that wasn’t constantly masked. He drew aside the curtains surrounding Arthur’s bed now and regarded that face; the eyelids shut against the world, hiding those blue eyes from view and yet failing to conceal the frantic rolling of the eyeballs beneath them; the faint smattering of freckles on his cheeks, now screwed up in pain or torment or whatever terrors Arthur faced in the night; his full lips, not soft and smooth as Merlin sometimes imagined they would feel on his own, but dry and chapped, unloved. Merlin knew these features almost as well as he knew his own, had regarded them night after night for almost a week now and had observed them for much longer during the days.
Arthur’s body bucked suddenly and a groan escaped him. His hands were clenched fiercely over the sheets and Merlin knew that he would find four semicircles shallowly cut into the palm of each hand when he tended the prince in the morning.
The cuts were part of the reason he had brought the magic book with him on the second night; there had to be something in there to help quell bad dreams, or at least to prevent the sleeper from doing themselves damage. Merlin knew that there was a potion to aid sleep, had himself once delivered some to the lady Morgana, but he didn’t know how to make it and Gaius would know it was intended for Arthur. Arthur had never been able to bring himself to ask for help on his own behalf in all the time that Merlin had known him, and the very idea that he would do so now was preposterous; the one time Merlin had brought up the topic of Arthur’s nightmares Arthur had graced him with such a look that Merlin felt he had been lucky to escape being sacked again. As it was, Merlin sat by the prince night after night, looking through his book and watching over him. So far, his book had yielded very little.
The third night had been even more eventful than the first two in that Arthur had fallen from his bed (Merlin had used his magic to catch him before he hit the ground and lift him back into the bed). After that, Merlin had been to see the Dragon, pleading for help, for anything that would lessen Arthur’s nocturnal suffering. The Dragon had replied that magic was only a part of it, that Merlin had other powers that could help Arthur; and Merlin had been left feeling bewildered.
He pulled the curtains closed again now and settled back into the chair, forcing his own tired eyes to remain open; he could sleep later, after the worst of the nightmares had passed.
There was silence for a long time and then the unmistakeable sounds of Arthur thrashing wildly in his sleep; Merlin wished he knew who or what Arthur’s invisible foe was. Sometimes Merlin let himself think that he could rescue Arthur from even this.
Arthur cried out. An incoherent, guttural yell.
Merlin sprang to his feet, suddenly nimble and not at all clumsy, not when what mattered was getting to Arthur’s side right now and- he didn’t know what he would do, but there had to be something. There had to be something.
Then he was at Arthur’s side, kneeling on the bed and watching; how he hated watching, listening, waiting and doing nothing. Patience was no virtue. He gripped one of Arthur’s hands tightly between both of his, trying to instil in the other boy some of his own will. Arthur certainly seemed calmer, enough so that Merlin slid from the bed and once more took up his place in the chair, knowing these were the actions of more than a devoted servant and not caring.
Almost immediately Arthur’s breathing became faster, became shallow, panicky breaths that matched the shaking racking his entire body. Merlin balked; it had never been this bad before. He leant over the other boy, unsure of how to proceed, and Arthur’s eyes flickered open for the briefest moment and although they had undoubtedly been looking through him, it hadn’t felt that way. Merlin drew himself onto the bed and under the sheets, holding Arthur’s body against his own and hoping against hope that the future king of Albion wouldn’t wake up; it was surely far more than he could expect for Arthur to believe Merlin didn’t know that this wasn’t part of normal master-servant relationships.
It was almost more than Merlin could take when Arthur’s arms found their way around him, pulling the two of them even tighter together.
When he awoke the next morning it was with a start, as he realised he was still in Arthur’s bed, that they were still wrapped around each other as tightly as any two people could be. It was a moment before he realised that Arthur had slept just as soundly as he had.
Merlin tried not to wake the other boy as he extricated himself from his arms and attempted to move from the bed, but a strong hand caught his upper arm before he could make his escape. His eyes met Arthur’s and in that moment he realised that it didn’t matter whether his actions had been appropriate for a servant, didn’t matter that Arthur would one day be king or that he himself was a warlock. In that moment all that mattered was that there was an indefinable connection between Arthur and him, and from the expression in Arthur’s eyes Merlin knew he wasn’t the only one to feel it.
“Stay,” Arthur said, and it wasn’t an order and it wasn’t a command, it was just Arthur needing him there and of course Merlin stayed.
Arthur spoke for a long time, mostly looking at the ceiling and anywhere but Merlin, and Merlin let him, knowing that this was what the Dragon had meant all along. Arthur talked about his dreams, stumbling over the words at first in a way that explained to Merlin why he had been so resolutely silent on the topic before; it wasn’t fitting for a prince to be ineloquent and Arthur was incapable of beginning this explanation in any other way.
Merlin listened, without hating it, and Arthur told of a Camelot gone mad with lawlessness, of himself as a weak and ineffectual king, watching his kingdom dissolve into a chaotic mess of colours: red and black and orange, a mixture of death and despair. Arthur showed Merlin a world in which he had disappointed his father at every turn, had eventually proved himself to be unworthy of the name of Pendragon by lifting his father’s ban on magic, by trying to judge each case on its own merits and being overwhelmed by the implications of that; there was too much for one man to do alone, but Arthur was learning, fumbling in the dark really, and his best was never good enough. Merlin said nothing, merely squeezed Arthur’s hand tightly and continued to lie still, listening. Arthur told of a land without any underlying order, of a world in which he himself had no direction, no cause, and all of Albion became cold and broken.
Later, he turned to Merlin, looking into his eyes for the first time.
“How can I be king without something to believe in?” he asked, and the question was almost plaintive in its desperation, Arthur’s need for an answer knocking away any attempt at his ingrained barriers.
“You have me,” Merlin said.