If You Are Not Too Long, I Will Wait Here For You All My Life - 1 & 2
Title: If You Are Not Too Long, I Will Wait Here For You All My Life
Author: lady_krystal_79
Rating: NC-17 (overall)
Characters/Pairings: Merlin/Arthur
Warnings/Spoilers: Just assume Season One for safety.
Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin, or any of the characters herein. Even the title is a quote by Oscar Wilde.
Summary: Waiting is something Arthur and Merlin hate to do, and the one thing they are destined to do.
Word Count: 12,191 (In total)
A/N: This is actually my second fic in the Merlin fandom.
First Act: The Beginning
It seemed to Arthur that he had spent his whole life waiting. He’d had to wait until he was strong enough to lift a sword, tall enough to reach the stirrups, old enough to command the respect of grown men. There was always something he had been told he had to wait for. He could finally cross being crowned as Prince of Camelot off the list, but there was so much more he had yet to wait for. There was the one thing he both longed for and hated; wait until you are King... He would no longer have to live by his father’s, at times, unreasonable decrees. On the other hand, he loved his father, and Arthur’s coronation would only come after Uther’s death. There was another person upon whom he waited with both annoyance and dread; Merlin.
You see, Arthur was not so blind as people seemed to think he was. What kind of knight would he be if his awareness was so low? He had seen...things. Things which had no explanation, other than one. And Merlin was always at the centre of it all. He knew, somehow, that Merlin had been involved in the forgery of Lancelot’s papers of nobility, and also in Lancelot’s defeat of the griffin. And that experience in the caves, where he had followed mysterious blue lights to safety, Merlin’s cure in his hand. There had been something about those lights, almost an aura, and Arthur had felt them urging him on. Also, the debacles he had faced on the tournament grounds; facing down the threat of venomous snakes coming to life on shields and knights that could not be killed. Merlin had been the first to report on the shield, and they had not shown themselves until he arrived, belatedly, at the sidelines. And it had been Merlin who had given his father a sword, a sword that no one had seen before or since, that had managed to kill a wraith. Add to that unicorns and questing beasts and near escapes from certain death, all involving Merlin, in one way or another, and Arthur thought it was a fairly compelling argument for his hapless manservant being a sorcerer.
So, Arthur waited. He waited for Merlin to tell him the truth, to trust him enough to speak up. And as time passed, resentment grew within Arthur. Every lie, every innocent, wide-eyed stare, was as good as a slap in the face. He refused to admit that it hurt, that knowing he was not trusted hit his heart with the force of a dagger. Instead, Arthur withdrew. He pulled back into himself, where he could pretend he was untouched. He knew that Merlin was confused by his conduct, but he had been foolish enough and it was time to admit that he would always be held apart from everyone else.
***
Merlin was confused. His position as Arthur’s manservant had started out as an unwelcome problem, and then a needless burden, but had, somehow, somewhere along the way, become an unlikely friendship. The dragon and his visions of destiny aside, Merlin had been surprised to find himself enjoying his exchanges with Arthur. He wasn’t sure what had prompted the change. He had first noticed Arthur watching him, his eyes following him wherever he went, and had feared that Arthur suspected his true nature. After a while, however, his regard had ceased, and the Prince had held him at ever widening distances ever since. Merlin could not think of one thing he had done that would have caused this separating, and was not able to do anything that seemed able to remove that aloof misery from Arthur’s eyes.
***
Of course, the revealing of Merlin’s abilities to Arthur could not have occurred at a worse time than at which they did. Uther was dead; an old man cold in his bed with a vibrant, broken prince kneeling by his side. Arthur had picked up his father’s crown and had thrown it, with all his grief and rage, at the window. Gaius, who had respected the king as much as the man, had unwittingly cried out, a horrified ’no’. Without a thought, Merlin had stretched out, his magic extending much further than his hand could do, and caught the crown before it could crash through the glass. He realised, immediately, what he had done, and looked at Arthur with dawning horror. Arthur was...not shocked. His eyes held a certain satisfaction, just a flicker amid the swirling pain and sorrow and anguish. Merlin suddenly understood. Arthur had known all along, and Merlin’s continued denial had been the cause of their rift. He knew, knew, that there was no second chance with Arthur. Whatever destiny they shared, it would not be as friends, and it would certainly not be anything like the feverish dreams that plagued his sleep. Arthur would be King, and Merlin would be his Warlock,
***
In the end, Arthur knew regrets. He fought, his men slain at his feet, Merlin’s Excalibur drenched in blood as Arthur was himself. Mordred’s army of supernatural beasts and soulless men continued to surround him. He couldn’t even feel it when their claws slashed him, when their swords left him dripping more of his precious life onto the field already made muddy with it. It didn’t matter to him anymore; he only regretted that there was so much left unsaid between Merlin and himself. Eventually, Excalibur fell, the hand that held it too weak to lift it anymore. Arthur went to his knees, his eyes lifting to where Mordred sat on his horse upon the hill overlooking the battlefield. He had saved this boy’s life, a long time ago, and could not understand such hatred directed at him, at Camelot. He wanted to ask ’why’, only he didn’t seem able to draw breath into his lungs.
As Arthur disappeared beneath claws and blades, his last thoughts were not of his people, his beloved Camelot, Guinevere, Lancelot, or the loyal men who had preceded him to this hideous death. No, Arthur’s last thoughts were for the man whose name he whispered with his dying breath. “Merlin...”
***
In a cave below a castle, Merlin stood chained by Morgana’s magic. The irony of the situation - so like that of Camelot’s dragon - was not lost on him. He knew that somewhere out there, Arthur was fighting a battle he could not win. Without his warlock. Without the man who understood him. Between Mordred’s vicious, obsessive hate, and Morgana’s insanity, there would be no life spared, not even a former saviour, a man as close as a brother. Fear, more than anything, was eating at Merlin. Not knowing was driving him crazy. And then, suddenly, Merlin did know. He felt Arthur’s life slipping away, felt the other man’s regrets. Even as his consciousness ebbed, Arthur had no thought for his own fate, no fear at the end of his life. That bright light, the light that it had taken him too many years to see and recognise as the tie between Arthur and himself, dimmed until it went dark. And then Merlin heard it, heard the last word Arthur would ever utter. Merlin...
The loss cut through Merlin sharper than any blade. He felt it well up within him, fill him, until it was larger than he could contain. Merlin, the great warlock of Camelot, threw back his head and opened his mouth. The sound he made was barely human, the cry of a man who had lost everything. It echoed through the halls. It seeped through to give Morgana a moment of clarity, and the knowledge of what she had done broke what was left of her mind. It was heard, they would say, throughout the surrounding country, and into the heart of Camelot itself. As he continued to scream, the very ground trembled. It did not stop until every stone of Mordred’s fortress lay in rubble. Some escaped, fleeing as the walls fell. The Lady Morgana was not one of them. Neither could have the sorcerer trapped below.
Days later, the legends would say, a man emerged from the ruin, still wild with grief and crackling with unleashed power. He would never be seen again, although rumours abounded. They told of a creature, more animal than man, which haunted the forests. They told of a hut in the woods that once surrounded a great city, where spring never turned to summer, and where you could catch a glimpse of a perpetually youthful man speaking as though to another. And they told of a man with eyes that flashed golden, a man who wandered, searching for a future, for the destiny he had been promised, for love. But the days of magic passed, and the rumours faded into myth, until Camelot was only a dream to be wished for, Arthur an ideal to be yearned after, and Merlin a character in a half-forgotten play.
Act Two: Second Chances
Christianity had taken over the land, and Merlin had watched Knights and commoners alike ride off for the Holy Land. He had snorted at their arrogance and folly - as if there was only one land that was holy, as if they had not all forgotten the sacred ground beneath their very feet. He himself felt no desire to take to sea for months only to wage war in a distant desert. He settled in a small village on the outskirts of Nottinghamshire, offering his services as a healer to the simple folk who lived there. It reminded him of Ealdor, and this time he appreciated this straightforward life for what it was. Similarly, playing healer reminded him of Gaius and his affectionately exasperated tutelage. If he was careful to dwell on nothing more from that time then Merlin could even say he was happy.
Things, naturally, never stayed the same for too long. The current King, the one they called ‘Lionheart’, was perhaps the best ruler he had seen since...no. But he was zealous for his god, the One God who now ruled men’s hearts, and had left his people to Crusade, taking his most trusted nobles with him. That left his brother, Prince John, in nominal control, and that one was a tyrant. The taxes continued to rise, and the peasants found themselves scrounging for the most meagre of meals simply to survive. Even the middle classes were struggling to feed those of their household. Hunger was nothing new to Merlin, but this suffering around him brought to mind memories best left buried. Just when he resolved to do something, to stop hiding behind this healer’s mask, the rumours began.
There was a man, the people whispered, a man who dared to defy the Sheriff of Nottingham, and Prince John himself. He was a disgraced noble, some said, while others claimed he was a mere commoner. Merlin waited, wondering if these were merely the dreams of a desperate populace. But the stories then flooded in; this man had stolen the taxes collected the previous month, he had attacked the heavily laden carts like a ghost from the forests of Nottingham, and had disappeared the same way with all the gold that he and his handful of men could carry. Most of the stories, however, concerned the sudden appearance of gold in the hands that most needed it. No one doubted the source of this bounty. It was their saviour, their hero, this Robin Hood.
Merlin himself did what he could to ease the burden of his fellow villagers, offering his services and potions without charge. People came from the nearby villages too, as news of his works spread. Merlin knew it was dangerous to draw this attention to himself, but he could not refuse to treat those who so desperately needed his help. Eventually, he was noticed, but not by the men he feared. He awoke early one morning, the frost still coating the ground outside, the air still heavily laden with fog yet to be burned off by the early spring sunlight. He wasn’t sure what had caused him to stir, but he knew it had been something. At the painfully familiar sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard, Merlin turned, ready to defend himself against this threat, gold already sparking in his eyes.
“Do you know who I am, Healer?” The voice hit him like a blow, and Merlin fell to his knees.
“Arthur.”
“No, and by your reaction I would say it is just as well I am not this Arthur person. My name is Robin of Locksley, but most call me...”
“Robin Hood.” Merlin answered, his equilibrium restored. “Yes, of course I have heard of you.”
He could make out the smirk on the other man’s hooded face, but nothing more. Still, he needed no more to recognise what his ears had already told him. “And what do you say about my...activities?”
Merlin got to his feet and quirked an eyebrow at the outlaw. “If you are asking whether I agree with what you are doing, then the answer is yes. If you are asking if I think you are foolhardy, then my answer remains the same.”
Robin of Locksley threw off his hood and laughed. Merlin sucked in a breath as his chest constricted. He had forgotten, made himself forget, just how brilliant that blonde hair was, how bright those blue eyes were when they danced. It hurt to hear that free, hearty laughter he had learned to provoke and cherish. He wanted to grab this grinning nobleman and shake him until he remembered who he really was, until he remembered Merlin.
“Well, you’re not backwards about voicing your opinions, are you Healer?” He clapped Merlin on the shoulder in an achingly familiar manner. “It is a most welcome change.”
“I am glad you are pleased.” Merlin’s tone suggested that the opposite was true. “What are you doing here?” I cannot stand to have you here, so near and further away than ever.
The smile disappeared, the still-young face becoming instantly serious. “I have heard that you do a great service in the villages hereabout. I need to know if you would offer the same to a man known to break the law, or whether you would turn him away.”
“Are you hurt?” The years had not dimmed that first rush of panic when he feared for Arthur’s health. “Why didn’t you say so, you silly fool? Where? Show me immediately.”
Blue eyes widened fractionally at this response. “No. I am fine. Calm yourself. It is my men I fear for. I have known war, but many that follow me are simple farmers, men who have never lifted a blade in battle. Were they to be harmed...” Robin let the thought hang. Merlin understood. Arthur’s first concern had always been for his men rather than himself. He wanted to make sure they would have access to the necessary supplies and skill should they need it.
“What if I were to join you?” Merlin pushed down his doubts that he could not stand to be so close to Arthur, more readily accepting of the part of him screaming that where Arthur was, he had to be.
Again he had surprised the other man.”Perhaps...no. There are people here that need you too. If I need you, I know where to find you.” He pulled his hood back over his head, and Merlin felt like he could breathe again. “Take care, Healer. There are many who depend on you.”
“And you, my lord.”
Broad shoulders tensed, and then dropped. Heavily, he replied, “Yes. I know.” Then he left as quietly as he had come.
***
Nearly a full month passed before Merlin heard from Arthur - Robin, he must remember it was Robin - again. A giant of a man stumbled in to Merlin’s home late in the afternoon, calling for the healer. Merlin stepped into the light and saw the man assess his age. How little did he know...
“I was sent by a friend. He said you would not turn me away.”
Merlin lifted his brow. “Does this ‘friend’ have a name? Or am I to guess?”
Brown eyes shifted about the room before they rested once more on Merlin. He whispered a name with barest of breath. “Locksley.”
“Ah.” Merlin stepped forward and gestured for the man to come closer. “And your name?”
“They call me Little John.” Merlin coughed out a laugh and John blushed. “They find it amusing, and I don’t mind. They aren’t nasty like some people.”
Merlin realised that the man was a little bit slow, and he wasn’t surprised that Arthur - Robin, damn it - had taken him under his wing. His prince had always had an easy way with children and simple folk, treating them with dignity and respect that they seldom received elsewhere. This John would be a loyal follower, and his strength would no doubt be utilised. “Well, Little John, how may I be of service?” The man lifted his shirt, revealing a heavily muscled torso and a large purple bruise just below his ribs. “How did this happen?”
“Robin found out where the taxes would be taken and set up an ambush.” John’s head fell in shame. “One of the guards kicked me as he fled. I didn’t move fast enough. But Robin, he was right there, and he gave me his horse and told me to come to you.”
“Mmmmm.” Merlin replied vaguely. “Just as well. I have a poultice that will work wonders on this, but I will have to change it every day.”
“You want me to come back every day?” John did not seem too fond of that prospect. Merlin hid his smile.
“Not at all.” Little John relaxed, until Merlin added, “You will just have to take me back with you.”
***
“You monumental idiot!” Little John flinched, but Robin walked straight past him and continued to yell at the grinning healer. “I told you to stay safe in your village. Little John! Take him back this instant!”
Little John opened his mouth to reply, but Merlin spoke first. “I know where your camp is, and if I was to be tortured, I am sure I could tell them how to get here. You have to keep me here, for your own safety.”
Robin’s eyes slitted and he growled. “You unbelievable, insufferable, weak-minded, foolish...”
“Prat.” Merlin found the word falling off his tongue before he could think. It had the pleasant affect of stopping Robin mid-tirade. The blonde man was staring at him, a frown on his face. For one wild moment, Merlin thought he would remember, but chance passed as another voice called out.
“Robin! You’re needed over at the sword practice. Gavin and Harold are at it again.”
Looking heavenward as though praying for the strength to deal with those about him, Robin replied, “I’ll be right there, Will. Try to keep them from doing any damage this time.” He turned to Merlin, glared, and then focused on Little John. “You brought him; you find him somewhere to stay.”
***
The next few months were made up of weeks of planning followed by a flurry of activity whenever the men went out to ‘reappropriate’ the tax collection. More villagers flooded into Robin’s camp as Prince John grew more wrathful. Merlin learned to look at Robin and not search for any sign of Arthur. Robin, grudgingly, admitted that it was better to have Merlin on hand rather than a good ride away. When Maid Marion arrived in the camp, Merlin looked into Guinevere’s once-beloved face with a weary resignation. Robin, naturally, was captivated and, as always, the woman signalled the beginning of the end.
Prince John’s obsession with Robin eventually lead to him taking Marion, who was rumoured to be close to the outlaw, prisoner, and Robin was bound - by both honour and heart - to save her. Everyone knew it was too dangerous, knew that it was a trap, but they stood by his side and carried out their hero’s reckless plan. It was almost a disaster, and Robin realised too late just how much danger he had placed his friends in. They retreated before they could be caught, Marion in tow, and regrouped back at the camp.
Merlin recognised the fury and distress that kept Robin moving about the camp that night. He understood the adrenaline that was still rushing through the other man’s body. He watched him while he made rounds of the camp himself, wrapping cuts and cleaning wounds. Marion went to him, tried to soothe his unease, and Merlin saw him try to reign in his wheeling emotions, to treat her in the manner he reserved for women. It cost him, and in the end it left him exhausted. Merlin tried not to feel relieved when Robin finally laid down to rest - alone. The whole camp seemed to settle with him, finally staggering to a halt and falling into silence.
Perhaps that was why a band of men were able to ride into the centre of the camp the next morning, unhindered and unchallenged. One man rode forward and asked, “Who is in charge here?”
Robin walked up and stood tall. “I am.”
“And...what is this?” The rider wanted to know.
With a half smirk on his face, Robin answered, “We are just simple folk who wish to live without the tyranny of a twisted crown.”
“You are the one they call Robin Hood? The man who steals from the crown?”
Robin pulled himself up taller still, steel in his spine. “When the King returns and rights the wrongs committed in his name, I shall gladly cease, but until that time, yes, I am he.”
“You dare to claim allegiance to the King?” The man’s disdain was tangible.
“Edward, that is enough.” A second man rode forward and pushed back the hood of his cloak. “I know this man. He once saved my life, and here he is protecting my rule in my absence. Tell me, Robin of Locksley, where do I find more men like you?”
“Sire.” Robin went to his knees, the rest of the watching camp gasping and following his lead when they realised that this was their King. “I have only done what any loyal subject should do. And as for others like me, you see about you many.” He swept out his arm, encompassing every man, woman and child in the camp.
Naturally, King Richard, the Lionheart, was impressed by this humility. He had raised his voice and addressed the assembly, thanking them for their loyalty and apologising for his lengthy absence. He then pardoned any who had been proclaimed an outlaw. And that should have been the happy end to the affair, leaving Robin to marry his Marion and live happily ever after. Instead, Robin fell victim to an illness only three weeks after Richard’s return. Merlin spent nearly every moment by his side, searching relentlessly for a cure. It was not to be. Robin slipped further and further from Merlin with every passing hour.
At the very end, Robin looked at him, and Arthur shone in his eyes. With the last of his strength, he murmured, “Do not fret, Merlin. This world has no further need of me. I am at peace.” His eyes closed and his breath sighed out.
“No! Arthur? Arthur!” But it was too late, and Merlin wept bitter tears for having missed his second chance to make things right with his Prince, his King, the ruler of his heart. He sobbed, “I have need of you.”
Act Three - http://lady-krystal-79.livejournal.com/18376.html
Author: lady_krystal_79
Rating: NC-17 (overall)
Characters/Pairings: Merlin/Arthur
Warnings/Spoilers: Just assume Season One for safety.
Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin, or any of the characters herein. Even the title is a quote by Oscar Wilde.
Summary: Waiting is something Arthur and Merlin hate to do, and the one thing they are destined to do.
Word Count: 12,191 (In total)
A/N: This is actually my second fic in the Merlin fandom.
First Act: The Beginning
It seemed to Arthur that he had spent his whole life waiting. He’d had to wait until he was strong enough to lift a sword, tall enough to reach the stirrups, old enough to command the respect of grown men. There was always something he had been told he had to wait for. He could finally cross being crowned as Prince of Camelot off the list, but there was so much more he had yet to wait for. There was the one thing he both longed for and hated; wait until you are King... He would no longer have to live by his father’s, at times, unreasonable decrees. On the other hand, he loved his father, and Arthur’s coronation would only come after Uther’s death. There was another person upon whom he waited with both annoyance and dread; Merlin.
You see, Arthur was not so blind as people seemed to think he was. What kind of knight would he be if his awareness was so low? He had seen...things. Things which had no explanation, other than one. And Merlin was always at the centre of it all. He knew, somehow, that Merlin had been involved in the forgery of Lancelot’s papers of nobility, and also in Lancelot’s defeat of the griffin. And that experience in the caves, where he had followed mysterious blue lights to safety, Merlin’s cure in his hand. There had been something about those lights, almost an aura, and Arthur had felt them urging him on. Also, the debacles he had faced on the tournament grounds; facing down the threat of venomous snakes coming to life on shields and knights that could not be killed. Merlin had been the first to report on the shield, and they had not shown themselves until he arrived, belatedly, at the sidelines. And it had been Merlin who had given his father a sword, a sword that no one had seen before or since, that had managed to kill a wraith. Add to that unicorns and questing beasts and near escapes from certain death, all involving Merlin, in one way or another, and Arthur thought it was a fairly compelling argument for his hapless manservant being a sorcerer.
So, Arthur waited. He waited for Merlin to tell him the truth, to trust him enough to speak up. And as time passed, resentment grew within Arthur. Every lie, every innocent, wide-eyed stare, was as good as a slap in the face. He refused to admit that it hurt, that knowing he was not trusted hit his heart with the force of a dagger. Instead, Arthur withdrew. He pulled back into himself, where he could pretend he was untouched. He knew that Merlin was confused by his conduct, but he had been foolish enough and it was time to admit that he would always be held apart from everyone else.
***
Merlin was confused. His position as Arthur’s manservant had started out as an unwelcome problem, and then a needless burden, but had, somehow, somewhere along the way, become an unlikely friendship. The dragon and his visions of destiny aside, Merlin had been surprised to find himself enjoying his exchanges with Arthur. He wasn’t sure what had prompted the change. He had first noticed Arthur watching him, his eyes following him wherever he went, and had feared that Arthur suspected his true nature. After a while, however, his regard had ceased, and the Prince had held him at ever widening distances ever since. Merlin could not think of one thing he had done that would have caused this separating, and was not able to do anything that seemed able to remove that aloof misery from Arthur’s eyes.
***
Of course, the revealing of Merlin’s abilities to Arthur could not have occurred at a worse time than at which they did. Uther was dead; an old man cold in his bed with a vibrant, broken prince kneeling by his side. Arthur had picked up his father’s crown and had thrown it, with all his grief and rage, at the window. Gaius, who had respected the king as much as the man, had unwittingly cried out, a horrified ’no’. Without a thought, Merlin had stretched out, his magic extending much further than his hand could do, and caught the crown before it could crash through the glass. He realised, immediately, what he had done, and looked at Arthur with dawning horror. Arthur was...not shocked. His eyes held a certain satisfaction, just a flicker amid the swirling pain and sorrow and anguish. Merlin suddenly understood. Arthur had known all along, and Merlin’s continued denial had been the cause of their rift. He knew, knew, that there was no second chance with Arthur. Whatever destiny they shared, it would not be as friends, and it would certainly not be anything like the feverish dreams that plagued his sleep. Arthur would be King, and Merlin would be his Warlock,
***
In the end, Arthur knew regrets. He fought, his men slain at his feet, Merlin’s Excalibur drenched in blood as Arthur was himself. Mordred’s army of supernatural beasts and soulless men continued to surround him. He couldn’t even feel it when their claws slashed him, when their swords left him dripping more of his precious life onto the field already made muddy with it. It didn’t matter to him anymore; he only regretted that there was so much left unsaid between Merlin and himself. Eventually, Excalibur fell, the hand that held it too weak to lift it anymore. Arthur went to his knees, his eyes lifting to where Mordred sat on his horse upon the hill overlooking the battlefield. He had saved this boy’s life, a long time ago, and could not understand such hatred directed at him, at Camelot. He wanted to ask ’why’, only he didn’t seem able to draw breath into his lungs.
As Arthur disappeared beneath claws and blades, his last thoughts were not of his people, his beloved Camelot, Guinevere, Lancelot, or the loyal men who had preceded him to this hideous death. No, Arthur’s last thoughts were for the man whose name he whispered with his dying breath. “Merlin...”
***
In a cave below a castle, Merlin stood chained by Morgana’s magic. The irony of the situation - so like that of Camelot’s dragon - was not lost on him. He knew that somewhere out there, Arthur was fighting a battle he could not win. Without his warlock. Without the man who understood him. Between Mordred’s vicious, obsessive hate, and Morgana’s insanity, there would be no life spared, not even a former saviour, a man as close as a brother. Fear, more than anything, was eating at Merlin. Not knowing was driving him crazy. And then, suddenly, Merlin did know. He felt Arthur’s life slipping away, felt the other man’s regrets. Even as his consciousness ebbed, Arthur had no thought for his own fate, no fear at the end of his life. That bright light, the light that it had taken him too many years to see and recognise as the tie between Arthur and himself, dimmed until it went dark. And then Merlin heard it, heard the last word Arthur would ever utter. Merlin...
The loss cut through Merlin sharper than any blade. He felt it well up within him, fill him, until it was larger than he could contain. Merlin, the great warlock of Camelot, threw back his head and opened his mouth. The sound he made was barely human, the cry of a man who had lost everything. It echoed through the halls. It seeped through to give Morgana a moment of clarity, and the knowledge of what she had done broke what was left of her mind. It was heard, they would say, throughout the surrounding country, and into the heart of Camelot itself. As he continued to scream, the very ground trembled. It did not stop until every stone of Mordred’s fortress lay in rubble. Some escaped, fleeing as the walls fell. The Lady Morgana was not one of them. Neither could have the sorcerer trapped below.
Days later, the legends would say, a man emerged from the ruin, still wild with grief and crackling with unleashed power. He would never be seen again, although rumours abounded. They told of a creature, more animal than man, which haunted the forests. They told of a hut in the woods that once surrounded a great city, where spring never turned to summer, and where you could catch a glimpse of a perpetually youthful man speaking as though to another. And they told of a man with eyes that flashed golden, a man who wandered, searching for a future, for the destiny he had been promised, for love. But the days of magic passed, and the rumours faded into myth, until Camelot was only a dream to be wished for, Arthur an ideal to be yearned after, and Merlin a character in a half-forgotten play.
Act Two: Second Chances
Christianity had taken over the land, and Merlin had watched Knights and commoners alike ride off for the Holy Land. He had snorted at their arrogance and folly - as if there was only one land that was holy, as if they had not all forgotten the sacred ground beneath their very feet. He himself felt no desire to take to sea for months only to wage war in a distant desert. He settled in a small village on the outskirts of Nottinghamshire, offering his services as a healer to the simple folk who lived there. It reminded him of Ealdor, and this time he appreciated this straightforward life for what it was. Similarly, playing healer reminded him of Gaius and his affectionately exasperated tutelage. If he was careful to dwell on nothing more from that time then Merlin could even say he was happy.
Things, naturally, never stayed the same for too long. The current King, the one they called ‘Lionheart’, was perhaps the best ruler he had seen since...no. But he was zealous for his god, the One God who now ruled men’s hearts, and had left his people to Crusade, taking his most trusted nobles with him. That left his brother, Prince John, in nominal control, and that one was a tyrant. The taxes continued to rise, and the peasants found themselves scrounging for the most meagre of meals simply to survive. Even the middle classes were struggling to feed those of their household. Hunger was nothing new to Merlin, but this suffering around him brought to mind memories best left buried. Just when he resolved to do something, to stop hiding behind this healer’s mask, the rumours began.
There was a man, the people whispered, a man who dared to defy the Sheriff of Nottingham, and Prince John himself. He was a disgraced noble, some said, while others claimed he was a mere commoner. Merlin waited, wondering if these were merely the dreams of a desperate populace. But the stories then flooded in; this man had stolen the taxes collected the previous month, he had attacked the heavily laden carts like a ghost from the forests of Nottingham, and had disappeared the same way with all the gold that he and his handful of men could carry. Most of the stories, however, concerned the sudden appearance of gold in the hands that most needed it. No one doubted the source of this bounty. It was their saviour, their hero, this Robin Hood.
Merlin himself did what he could to ease the burden of his fellow villagers, offering his services and potions without charge. People came from the nearby villages too, as news of his works spread. Merlin knew it was dangerous to draw this attention to himself, but he could not refuse to treat those who so desperately needed his help. Eventually, he was noticed, but not by the men he feared. He awoke early one morning, the frost still coating the ground outside, the air still heavily laden with fog yet to be burned off by the early spring sunlight. He wasn’t sure what had caused him to stir, but he knew it had been something. At the painfully familiar sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard, Merlin turned, ready to defend himself against this threat, gold already sparking in his eyes.
“Do you know who I am, Healer?” The voice hit him like a blow, and Merlin fell to his knees.
“Arthur.”
“No, and by your reaction I would say it is just as well I am not this Arthur person. My name is Robin of Locksley, but most call me...”
“Robin Hood.” Merlin answered, his equilibrium restored. “Yes, of course I have heard of you.”
He could make out the smirk on the other man’s hooded face, but nothing more. Still, he needed no more to recognise what his ears had already told him. “And what do you say about my...activities?”
Merlin got to his feet and quirked an eyebrow at the outlaw. “If you are asking whether I agree with what you are doing, then the answer is yes. If you are asking if I think you are foolhardy, then my answer remains the same.”
Robin of Locksley threw off his hood and laughed. Merlin sucked in a breath as his chest constricted. He had forgotten, made himself forget, just how brilliant that blonde hair was, how bright those blue eyes were when they danced. It hurt to hear that free, hearty laughter he had learned to provoke and cherish. He wanted to grab this grinning nobleman and shake him until he remembered who he really was, until he remembered Merlin.
“Well, you’re not backwards about voicing your opinions, are you Healer?” He clapped Merlin on the shoulder in an achingly familiar manner. “It is a most welcome change.”
“I am glad you are pleased.” Merlin’s tone suggested that the opposite was true. “What are you doing here?” I cannot stand to have you here, so near and further away than ever.
The smile disappeared, the still-young face becoming instantly serious. “I have heard that you do a great service in the villages hereabout. I need to know if you would offer the same to a man known to break the law, or whether you would turn him away.”
“Are you hurt?” The years had not dimmed that first rush of panic when he feared for Arthur’s health. “Why didn’t you say so, you silly fool? Where? Show me immediately.”
Blue eyes widened fractionally at this response. “No. I am fine. Calm yourself. It is my men I fear for. I have known war, but many that follow me are simple farmers, men who have never lifted a blade in battle. Were they to be harmed...” Robin let the thought hang. Merlin understood. Arthur’s first concern had always been for his men rather than himself. He wanted to make sure they would have access to the necessary supplies and skill should they need it.
“What if I were to join you?” Merlin pushed down his doubts that he could not stand to be so close to Arthur, more readily accepting of the part of him screaming that where Arthur was, he had to be.
Again he had surprised the other man.”Perhaps...no. There are people here that need you too. If I need you, I know where to find you.” He pulled his hood back over his head, and Merlin felt like he could breathe again. “Take care, Healer. There are many who depend on you.”
“And you, my lord.”
Broad shoulders tensed, and then dropped. Heavily, he replied, “Yes. I know.” Then he left as quietly as he had come.
***
Nearly a full month passed before Merlin heard from Arthur - Robin, he must remember it was Robin - again. A giant of a man stumbled in to Merlin’s home late in the afternoon, calling for the healer. Merlin stepped into the light and saw the man assess his age. How little did he know...
“I was sent by a friend. He said you would not turn me away.”
Merlin lifted his brow. “Does this ‘friend’ have a name? Or am I to guess?”
Brown eyes shifted about the room before they rested once more on Merlin. He whispered a name with barest of breath. “Locksley.”
“Ah.” Merlin stepped forward and gestured for the man to come closer. “And your name?”
“They call me Little John.” Merlin coughed out a laugh and John blushed. “They find it amusing, and I don’t mind. They aren’t nasty like some people.”
Merlin realised that the man was a little bit slow, and he wasn’t surprised that Arthur - Robin, damn it - had taken him under his wing. His prince had always had an easy way with children and simple folk, treating them with dignity and respect that they seldom received elsewhere. This John would be a loyal follower, and his strength would no doubt be utilised. “Well, Little John, how may I be of service?” The man lifted his shirt, revealing a heavily muscled torso and a large purple bruise just below his ribs. “How did this happen?”
“Robin found out where the taxes would be taken and set up an ambush.” John’s head fell in shame. “One of the guards kicked me as he fled. I didn’t move fast enough. But Robin, he was right there, and he gave me his horse and told me to come to you.”
“Mmmmm.” Merlin replied vaguely. “Just as well. I have a poultice that will work wonders on this, but I will have to change it every day.”
“You want me to come back every day?” John did not seem too fond of that prospect. Merlin hid his smile.
“Not at all.” Little John relaxed, until Merlin added, “You will just have to take me back with you.”
***
“You monumental idiot!” Little John flinched, but Robin walked straight past him and continued to yell at the grinning healer. “I told you to stay safe in your village. Little John! Take him back this instant!”
Little John opened his mouth to reply, but Merlin spoke first. “I know where your camp is, and if I was to be tortured, I am sure I could tell them how to get here. You have to keep me here, for your own safety.”
Robin’s eyes slitted and he growled. “You unbelievable, insufferable, weak-minded, foolish...”
“Prat.” Merlin found the word falling off his tongue before he could think. It had the pleasant affect of stopping Robin mid-tirade. The blonde man was staring at him, a frown on his face. For one wild moment, Merlin thought he would remember, but chance passed as another voice called out.
“Robin! You’re needed over at the sword practice. Gavin and Harold are at it again.”
Looking heavenward as though praying for the strength to deal with those about him, Robin replied, “I’ll be right there, Will. Try to keep them from doing any damage this time.” He turned to Merlin, glared, and then focused on Little John. “You brought him; you find him somewhere to stay.”
***
The next few months were made up of weeks of planning followed by a flurry of activity whenever the men went out to ‘reappropriate’ the tax collection. More villagers flooded into Robin’s camp as Prince John grew more wrathful. Merlin learned to look at Robin and not search for any sign of Arthur. Robin, grudgingly, admitted that it was better to have Merlin on hand rather than a good ride away. When Maid Marion arrived in the camp, Merlin looked into Guinevere’s once-beloved face with a weary resignation. Robin, naturally, was captivated and, as always, the woman signalled the beginning of the end.
Prince John’s obsession with Robin eventually lead to him taking Marion, who was rumoured to be close to the outlaw, prisoner, and Robin was bound - by both honour and heart - to save her. Everyone knew it was too dangerous, knew that it was a trap, but they stood by his side and carried out their hero’s reckless plan. It was almost a disaster, and Robin realised too late just how much danger he had placed his friends in. They retreated before they could be caught, Marion in tow, and regrouped back at the camp.
Merlin recognised the fury and distress that kept Robin moving about the camp that night. He understood the adrenaline that was still rushing through the other man’s body. He watched him while he made rounds of the camp himself, wrapping cuts and cleaning wounds. Marion went to him, tried to soothe his unease, and Merlin saw him try to reign in his wheeling emotions, to treat her in the manner he reserved for women. It cost him, and in the end it left him exhausted. Merlin tried not to feel relieved when Robin finally laid down to rest - alone. The whole camp seemed to settle with him, finally staggering to a halt and falling into silence.
Perhaps that was why a band of men were able to ride into the centre of the camp the next morning, unhindered and unchallenged. One man rode forward and asked, “Who is in charge here?”
Robin walked up and stood tall. “I am.”
“And...what is this?” The rider wanted to know.
With a half smirk on his face, Robin answered, “We are just simple folk who wish to live without the tyranny of a twisted crown.”
“You are the one they call Robin Hood? The man who steals from the crown?”
Robin pulled himself up taller still, steel in his spine. “When the King returns and rights the wrongs committed in his name, I shall gladly cease, but until that time, yes, I am he.”
“You dare to claim allegiance to the King?” The man’s disdain was tangible.
“Edward, that is enough.” A second man rode forward and pushed back the hood of his cloak. “I know this man. He once saved my life, and here he is protecting my rule in my absence. Tell me, Robin of Locksley, where do I find more men like you?”
“Sire.” Robin went to his knees, the rest of the watching camp gasping and following his lead when they realised that this was their King. “I have only done what any loyal subject should do. And as for others like me, you see about you many.” He swept out his arm, encompassing every man, woman and child in the camp.
Naturally, King Richard, the Lionheart, was impressed by this humility. He had raised his voice and addressed the assembly, thanking them for their loyalty and apologising for his lengthy absence. He then pardoned any who had been proclaimed an outlaw. And that should have been the happy end to the affair, leaving Robin to marry his Marion and live happily ever after. Instead, Robin fell victim to an illness only three weeks after Richard’s return. Merlin spent nearly every moment by his side, searching relentlessly for a cure. It was not to be. Robin slipped further and further from Merlin with every passing hour.
At the very end, Robin looked at him, and Arthur shone in his eyes. With the last of his strength, he murmured, “Do not fret, Merlin. This world has no further need of me. I am at peace.” His eyes closed and his breath sighed out.
“No! Arthur? Arthur!” But it was too late, and Merlin wept bitter tears for having missed his second chance to make things right with his Prince, his King, the ruler of his heart. He sobbed, “I have need of you.”
Act Three - http://lady-krystal-79.livejournal.com/18376.html