Fic : Fields Inside My Mind | Arthur/Merlin
Title : Fields Inside My Mind
Rating : PG-13 (for theme and violence)
Pairing : Arthur/Merlin
Summary : Magic cannot heal all things.
Prompt : Arthur/Merlin. Merlin gamely goes along with the "mental affliction" jokes normally, but when he returns from war, he hides the fact that he's suffering from PTSD and the jokes are no longer funny. (http://community.livejournal.com/kinkme_merlin/6345.html?thread=2965449#t2965449)
Warnings/Author Note : This fic deals with some post-war psychological situations. I feel it's incredibly important to respect the situation and all those who face it today. While doing all that I had to keep in mind the time period I was writing in so I hope I was able to do that in a way that was both realistic and respectful. I thoroughly enjoyed working with this piece and am considering writing a bit more :) The quote below served as an inspiration for this.
It requires more courage to suffer than to die. - Napoleon Bonaparte
Victory has never tasted so bitter. The march home is long and lonely, a quiet crowd of men walking forth with a hunch in their shoulders that looks something like defeat. They're battle weary, their stomachs aching, wounds open and left to the mercy of the Earth. Everything about this journey is different from the one they'd taken just months before. Their steps are heavier, all optimism drained like the blood from Merlin's face.
That time seems so far away, untouchable even when he closes his eyes. Merlin can remember the men laughing deep and hearty, the bravado matching the strength of their words, the arrogance of men. They'd made one fatal mistake from the start and underestimating the enemy was all it took.
The first day should've been the worst. Merlin should've been shocked at the clash of men on the open field, the hoofs of horses shaking the ground as if in fear. It was like two walls meeting, the quiet just moments before almost deafening, and the slice of metal following like an ice cold bath.
But as the time stretched on, minutes holding more meaning now than ever, the chaos grew and the bodies with it. Blood coated his skin as he ran through the falling men, corpses still beneath his feet. They were his colleagues, his friends, and with each swing of a sword they were gone.
At his side stood men looking like boys and boys trying their hardest to be men. They too fell, nameless and forgotten.
And so it went on, night after night. Small groups retreated, losing more with their backs turned, and in their place came new men, each group more scared than the last. The first warriors had the advantage of not knowing their fate, of having hope, and these had none of that.
Time passed in a blur, and Merlin could just barely see it go. Hair grew in thick on his chin, a beard hiding the sharp curves of his once young face. There were dark circles under his eyes, permanent like the scars across his forearms.
He's not sure how it all ended, how they somehow won and came to own the land so coldly concealed by the bodies of friend and foe. Merlin remembers that night, the quiet exchange of whispers and the hesitant breath of relief.
No celebration was held, no merry men stood around a camp fire or sang songs of their war. Instead the camp fell quiet, disturbingly peaceful for the first time since they'd arrived.
When the soldiers woke the next day it was to rain, the water washing away blood like a distant memory of the prior events. There would be many days left for a new group of men to remove the bodies, the take away what was left of a war so valiantly fought.
Each step was one further away, and the gentle hill before Camelot was a comforting sight, a firm feeling coiling inside his gut. A flurry of people greeted them, women looking for their husbands, children crying out for their fathers. All around the town wept, some with joy but most with grief, the pain so evident along with their loss.
The remaining soldiers stayed behind while Merlin marched on, towards the castle, to the king.
"Merlin," Arthur rose from his throne, his crown shining in the daylight.
Merlin bows before the king, his back aching with the curve. There's a firm hand at his chin a small moment later, long firms curling around the dirt-kissed skin. Arthur brings him to full height, his fingers crawling from their spot on Merlin's chin to reluctantly brush his cheeks, dip down to the crack in his lips.
Arthur doesn't ask questions, Merlin doesn't give answers. Their embrace is quiet like the castle around them, a firm crush of arms and bodies. Merlin can feel Arthur's lips at his neck, kissing the filthy skin.
Their time together is short, just a few bare minutes spent holding each other before they must fall into a rhythm that Merlin's not sure he even knows anymore.
The nightmares begin that first night back in Camelot. The castle is still, sticky heat making the fabric on Merlin's bed uncomfortable. It's tangible, the vivid red across his blade. He's watching himself like an outsider, watching the curve of his arms as he swings the sword just how Arthur had taught him. It slices into skin, protects him, and for the longest time he's able to look away before the bodies collapse when he pulls the blade free.
But one time... one time he's not fast enough, and there's a boy on the end of his sword. Young and healthy except for the gaping wound in his abdomen. He's got an angelic look in his deep blue eyes, and Merlin thinks for a moment that there's tears at the edge, and then he pulls. That body more than any other's shakes the foundation Merlin's standing on, and it's the boy's eyes he wakes up looking into.
The nightmares continue for days, endless mirrors of life and death behind his eyelids. He's more tired than he was on the battle field, his movements slower, thoughts dragging like a man who's lived a hundred years.
It's almost a comfort when Arthur starts to throw insults his way again. Merlin missed the teasing curl of his tongue, the way he tells Merlin what a God awful man-servant he is, even when that title has long worn down it's meaning. But there's something different about the familiar jab when Merlin forgets to clean Arthur's favorite robes.
"Have you some sort of mental affliction?" Arthur says, struggling to keep a straight face as he speaks words his father once said to Merlin.
It hurts unlike a simple set of words should, in a way that a soldier should not feel. There's no actual weapon striking his body, no blood leaving a infection-prone wound, but never the less it stings like a stab to the gut.
Things only get worse from that point on, and while the young boy still haunts him there's more. There's the death of his friends just inches away playing over and over again in his head even when he's awake, eyes wide open. He's stopped watching Arthur practice, stopped watching the knights spar. The sound of the blades connecting is too much, an overload of senses that explode within his stomach and bring bile to the back of his dry throat.
Merlin knows it's wearing on Arthur, watches in silence as the king opens his mouth to ask, desperately wants to know what's wrong, but thinks better of it and just smiles.
He's gone through the book twice, read every spell he can think of to stop the visions from invading his mind, to calm the restless nature of his soul. There's nothing, no magic to cure this war bred disease.
He walks around like he's barefoot in a tub of glass, constantly cautious of his surroundings. Merlin's been home for a month by the time Arthur risks inviting him back to his chambers, and for as much confusion as Merlin feels about life at the moment, Arthur's the only clear thing he has.
They sit in silence for a while, the fire winding down by the time Arthur turns to Merlin and presses their foreheads together. Their breaths mingle and Merlin feels more than hears as Arthur speaks his name.
Warrior worn hands touch his warm face, the calluses oddly smooth against his worried skin. "Let me help," Arthur pleads, his voice sounding bare unlike Merlin's ever heard him before.
Merlin nods, the hands wandering to his neck as Arthur brushes their lips together in a firm kiss. He's strong, and while Merlin is too Arthur's offering him a different kind of strong in this kiss. It's not the kind that comes with muscles or mind, but instead something more from inside. Arthur's offering him love, and Merlin takes it all.
Rating : PG-13 (for theme and violence)
Pairing : Arthur/Merlin
Summary : Magic cannot heal all things.
Prompt : Arthur/Merlin. Merlin gamely goes along with the "mental affliction" jokes normally, but when he returns from war, he hides the fact that he's suffering from PTSD and the jokes are no longer funny. (http://community.livejournal.com/kinkme_merlin/6345.html?thread=2965449#t2965449)
Warnings/Author Note : This fic deals with some post-war psychological situations. I feel it's incredibly important to respect the situation and all those who face it today. While doing all that I had to keep in mind the time period I was writing in so I hope I was able to do that in a way that was both realistic and respectful. I thoroughly enjoyed working with this piece and am considering writing a bit more :) The quote below served as an inspiration for this.
It requires more courage to suffer than to die. - Napoleon Bonaparte
Victory has never tasted so bitter. The march home is long and lonely, a quiet crowd of men walking forth with a hunch in their shoulders that looks something like defeat. They're battle weary, their stomachs aching, wounds open and left to the mercy of the Earth. Everything about this journey is different from the one they'd taken just months before. Their steps are heavier, all optimism drained like the blood from Merlin's face.
That time seems so far away, untouchable even when he closes his eyes. Merlin can remember the men laughing deep and hearty, the bravado matching the strength of their words, the arrogance of men. They'd made one fatal mistake from the start and underestimating the enemy was all it took.
The first day should've been the worst. Merlin should've been shocked at the clash of men on the open field, the hoofs of horses shaking the ground as if in fear. It was like two walls meeting, the quiet just moments before almost deafening, and the slice of metal following like an ice cold bath.
But as the time stretched on, minutes holding more meaning now than ever, the chaos grew and the bodies with it. Blood coated his skin as he ran through the falling men, corpses still beneath his feet. They were his colleagues, his friends, and with each swing of a sword they were gone.
At his side stood men looking like boys and boys trying their hardest to be men. They too fell, nameless and forgotten.
And so it went on, night after night. Small groups retreated, losing more with their backs turned, and in their place came new men, each group more scared than the last. The first warriors had the advantage of not knowing their fate, of having hope, and these had none of that.
Time passed in a blur, and Merlin could just barely see it go. Hair grew in thick on his chin, a beard hiding the sharp curves of his once young face. There were dark circles under his eyes, permanent like the scars across his forearms.
He's not sure how it all ended, how they somehow won and came to own the land so coldly concealed by the bodies of friend and foe. Merlin remembers that night, the quiet exchange of whispers and the hesitant breath of relief.
No celebration was held, no merry men stood around a camp fire or sang songs of their war. Instead the camp fell quiet, disturbingly peaceful for the first time since they'd arrived.
When the soldiers woke the next day it was to rain, the water washing away blood like a distant memory of the prior events. There would be many days left for a new group of men to remove the bodies, the take away what was left of a war so valiantly fought.
Each step was one further away, and the gentle hill before Camelot was a comforting sight, a firm feeling coiling inside his gut. A flurry of people greeted them, women looking for their husbands, children crying out for their fathers. All around the town wept, some with joy but most with grief, the pain so evident along with their loss.
The remaining soldiers stayed behind while Merlin marched on, towards the castle, to the king.
"Merlin," Arthur rose from his throne, his crown shining in the daylight.
Merlin bows before the king, his back aching with the curve. There's a firm hand at his chin a small moment later, long firms curling around the dirt-kissed skin. Arthur brings him to full height, his fingers crawling from their spot on Merlin's chin to reluctantly brush his cheeks, dip down to the crack in his lips.
Arthur doesn't ask questions, Merlin doesn't give answers. Their embrace is quiet like the castle around them, a firm crush of arms and bodies. Merlin can feel Arthur's lips at his neck, kissing the filthy skin.
Their time together is short, just a few bare minutes spent holding each other before they must fall into a rhythm that Merlin's not sure he even knows anymore.
The nightmares begin that first night back in Camelot. The castle is still, sticky heat making the fabric on Merlin's bed uncomfortable. It's tangible, the vivid red across his blade. He's watching himself like an outsider, watching the curve of his arms as he swings the sword just how Arthur had taught him. It slices into skin, protects him, and for the longest time he's able to look away before the bodies collapse when he pulls the blade free.
But one time... one time he's not fast enough, and there's a boy on the end of his sword. Young and healthy except for the gaping wound in his abdomen. He's got an angelic look in his deep blue eyes, and Merlin thinks for a moment that there's tears at the edge, and then he pulls. That body more than any other's shakes the foundation Merlin's standing on, and it's the boy's eyes he wakes up looking into.
The nightmares continue for days, endless mirrors of life and death behind his eyelids. He's more tired than he was on the battle field, his movements slower, thoughts dragging like a man who's lived a hundred years.
It's almost a comfort when Arthur starts to throw insults his way again. Merlin missed the teasing curl of his tongue, the way he tells Merlin what a God awful man-servant he is, even when that title has long worn down it's meaning. But there's something different about the familiar jab when Merlin forgets to clean Arthur's favorite robes.
"Have you some sort of mental affliction?" Arthur says, struggling to keep a straight face as he speaks words his father once said to Merlin.
It hurts unlike a simple set of words should, in a way that a soldier should not feel. There's no actual weapon striking his body, no blood leaving a infection-prone wound, but never the less it stings like a stab to the gut.
Things only get worse from that point on, and while the young boy still haunts him there's more. There's the death of his friends just inches away playing over and over again in his head even when he's awake, eyes wide open. He's stopped watching Arthur practice, stopped watching the knights spar. The sound of the blades connecting is too much, an overload of senses that explode within his stomach and bring bile to the back of his dry throat.
Merlin knows it's wearing on Arthur, watches in silence as the king opens his mouth to ask, desperately wants to know what's wrong, but thinks better of it and just smiles.
He's gone through the book twice, read every spell he can think of to stop the visions from invading his mind, to calm the restless nature of his soul. There's nothing, no magic to cure this war bred disease.
He walks around like he's barefoot in a tub of glass, constantly cautious of his surroundings. Merlin's been home for a month by the time Arthur risks inviting him back to his chambers, and for as much confusion as Merlin feels about life at the moment, Arthur's the only clear thing he has.
They sit in silence for a while, the fire winding down by the time Arthur turns to Merlin and presses their foreheads together. Their breaths mingle and Merlin feels more than hears as Arthur speaks his name.
Warrior worn hands touch his warm face, the calluses oddly smooth against his worried skin. "Let me help," Arthur pleads, his voice sounding bare unlike Merlin's ever heard him before.
Merlin nods, the hands wandering to his neck as Arthur brushes their lips together in a firm kiss. He's strong, and while Merlin is too Arthur's offering him a different kind of strong in this kiss. It's not the kind that comes with muscles or mind, but instead something more from inside. Arthur's offering him love, and Merlin takes it all.