srin
in
mad_poetics
Compelled my imagination many days, many days and many hours
Title: Compelled my imagination many days, many days and many hours
Characters: Merlin, Arthur.
Spoilers: Series 2. (Addresses the general state of affairs post series 2, but there are no specific episode spoilers.)
Rating: PG
Length: ~850 words.
Summary: Merlin doesn't tell Arthur the truth, but imagines it a great deal. Fantasies don't need to be realistic.
Note: I am still alive, really! Real life is busy these days, but here's a short poke at Merlin's brain while I try to ease back into writing more substantial things.
Merlin thinks often about telling Arthur. He thinks about it while he scrubs mud from the soles of Arthur’s boots; imagines arranging all the boots and brushes in the air, an elaborate choreography of cleaning while Merlin himself sits in Arthur’s seat with his hands behind his head. Imagines Arthur walking in on this scene, gaping, struck dumb with shock.
He thinks about it while he polishes Arthur’s armour. That’s a more noble scenario, usually, the one where the prince catches Merlin in the act of saving his royal life for the gods-know-how-many-eth time. There’s shock, again, a moment of disbelief, but then Arthur drops to his knees in awe as everything suddenly clicks into place, and when he finds his voice it’s to utter a scarce-coherent stream of apology and thanks, while Merlin is outwardly gracious, inwardly awash with relief and joy.
Merlin thinks about it a lot, runs through a revolving set of fantasies, each with its own details but ultimately boiling down to this: Arthur learns his secret, Arthur’s a little humbled, Arthur’s grateful, Arthur promises Merlin protection and a better future. Arthur accepts Merlin, easily, without any mistrust or grudge, and looks at him thereafter with warmth and appreciation.
They’re fantasies. They don’t need to be realistic.
They’re fantasies, idle fancies that flit through Merlin’s head when he needn’t be thinking about anything else. Merlin thinks about telling Arthur much like he used to think about kissing lovely Mary back in Ealdor. (Lovely Mary who’s seven years Merlin’s senior, who barely noticed him when he wasn’t tripping over her fence as she mended it. Lovely Mary, who gave him a gentle smile when he was tripping over her fence, and who moved in with Agatha, the miller’s sister, a week before Merlin left for Camelot.)
Merlin doesn’t think about telling Arthur when Arthur asks. He can’t think about it; can only grasp desperately at excuses, anything to get him out of the conversation before Arthur realizes something. It’s easy when Arthur’s obnoxious, demanding answers to questions outside his rights. Then Merlin’s annoyed, frustrated at being saddled with this overbearing git who has no idea how helpless he truly is, and it’s easy to let the falsehoods fall off his tongue.
It’s harder when Arthur’s teasing, a tender thread woven through his not-quite-careless words. When Arthur’s clueless but concerned, making overtures of friendship that are clumsy only because he doesn’t know any other way. Then, Merlin can still spin fine fictional threads, but there’s also a lead weight hanging heavy from his heart.
It’s hardest of all when Arthur drops the pretence all together and just asks, speaking low and slow and honest, and all Merlin can do is dangle short sharp lies and snatch himself away before Arthur can examine them too closely. Then it hurts, then his chest seizes up, a suffocating ache stuffed behind his ribs, a litany of what if and if only pounding away in his head until it takes all his self-control simply not to scream.
When Merlin isn’t daydreaming scenarios that will never occur, he remembers Will’s words. (You’re Arthur’s servant, nothing more, otherwise you’d tell him the truth.) He thinks about how different things might be if Morgana had come into that room five minutes later, (maybe he’d be dead, maybe he’d never have come back to Camelot, maybe a lot of people who are dead now wouldn’t be,) and misses Will so fiercely that his chest hurts and he has to dig the heels of his hands into his eyes to crush the prickle of tears. Even if Arthur knew now, even if it went as well as in his most unreasonable imaginings, it wouldn’t bring Will back.
Even if Merlin told Arthur today, it wouldn’t bring anyone back. It wouldn’t erase the lies, it wouldn’t change the laws, it wouldn’t make things easier, not really. The lies have become habit; Merlin can’t quite picture going through his days telling Arthur everything and having it out as equals, not now he’s spent so long keeping Arthur ignorant and deciding it all himself. For all his elaborate fantasies, Merlin can’t really conceive of Arthur looking at him with faith and true understanding. If Merlin told Arthur today, it would mean death, or exile, or it would mean one more person crushed by the burden of Merlin’s secret, and one fewer person ever looking at him with anything like affection.
So Merlin has his fantasies. He never kissed lovely Mary back in Ealdor, never even had a chance, but it was pleasant to think about after Will went home and Hunith went to sleep and it was just Merlin, alone beneath his blanket and in his mind, making up pretty pictures that would never be true.
These days he just doesn’t bother waiting until he’s in bed.
(If sometimes Arthur sneaks a glance at his servant and finds that the look in Merlin’s eyes fails to match the cheerful nonsense Merlin’s talking, if sometimes Arthur wishes he were better trusted, if sometimes Arthur sighs and thinks if only… Well. That’s only because he doesn’t know. Merlin’s sure of it.)
Characters: Merlin, Arthur.
Spoilers: Series 2. (Addresses the general state of affairs post series 2, but there are no specific episode spoilers.)
Rating: PG
Length: ~850 words.
Summary: Merlin doesn't tell Arthur the truth, but imagines it a great deal. Fantasies don't need to be realistic.
Note: I am still alive, really! Real life is busy these days, but here's a short poke at Merlin's brain while I try to ease back into writing more substantial things.
Merlin thinks often about telling Arthur. He thinks about it while he scrubs mud from the soles of Arthur’s boots; imagines arranging all the boots and brushes in the air, an elaborate choreography of cleaning while Merlin himself sits in Arthur’s seat with his hands behind his head. Imagines Arthur walking in on this scene, gaping, struck dumb with shock.
He thinks about it while he polishes Arthur’s armour. That’s a more noble scenario, usually, the one where the prince catches Merlin in the act of saving his royal life for the gods-know-how-many-eth time. There’s shock, again, a moment of disbelief, but then Arthur drops to his knees in awe as everything suddenly clicks into place, and when he finds his voice it’s to utter a scarce-coherent stream of apology and thanks, while Merlin is outwardly gracious, inwardly awash with relief and joy.
Merlin thinks about it a lot, runs through a revolving set of fantasies, each with its own details but ultimately boiling down to this: Arthur learns his secret, Arthur’s a little humbled, Arthur’s grateful, Arthur promises Merlin protection and a better future. Arthur accepts Merlin, easily, without any mistrust or grudge, and looks at him thereafter with warmth and appreciation.
They’re fantasies. They don’t need to be realistic.
They’re fantasies, idle fancies that flit through Merlin’s head when he needn’t be thinking about anything else. Merlin thinks about telling Arthur much like he used to think about kissing lovely Mary back in Ealdor. (Lovely Mary who’s seven years Merlin’s senior, who barely noticed him when he wasn’t tripping over her fence as she mended it. Lovely Mary, who gave him a gentle smile when he was tripping over her fence, and who moved in with Agatha, the miller’s sister, a week before Merlin left for Camelot.)
Merlin doesn’t think about telling Arthur when Arthur asks. He can’t think about it; can only grasp desperately at excuses, anything to get him out of the conversation before Arthur realizes something. It’s easy when Arthur’s obnoxious, demanding answers to questions outside his rights. Then Merlin’s annoyed, frustrated at being saddled with this overbearing git who has no idea how helpless he truly is, and it’s easy to let the falsehoods fall off his tongue.
It’s harder when Arthur’s teasing, a tender thread woven through his not-quite-careless words. When Arthur’s clueless but concerned, making overtures of friendship that are clumsy only because he doesn’t know any other way. Then, Merlin can still spin fine fictional threads, but there’s also a lead weight hanging heavy from his heart.
It’s hardest of all when Arthur drops the pretence all together and just asks, speaking low and slow and honest, and all Merlin can do is dangle short sharp lies and snatch himself away before Arthur can examine them too closely. Then it hurts, then his chest seizes up, a suffocating ache stuffed behind his ribs, a litany of what if and if only pounding away in his head until it takes all his self-control simply not to scream.
When Merlin isn’t daydreaming scenarios that will never occur, he remembers Will’s words. (You’re Arthur’s servant, nothing more, otherwise you’d tell him the truth.) He thinks about how different things might be if Morgana had come into that room five minutes later, (maybe he’d be dead, maybe he’d never have come back to Camelot, maybe a lot of people who are dead now wouldn’t be,) and misses Will so fiercely that his chest hurts and he has to dig the heels of his hands into his eyes to crush the prickle of tears. Even if Arthur knew now, even if it went as well as in his most unreasonable imaginings, it wouldn’t bring Will back.
Even if Merlin told Arthur today, it wouldn’t bring anyone back. It wouldn’t erase the lies, it wouldn’t change the laws, it wouldn’t make things easier, not really. The lies have become habit; Merlin can’t quite picture going through his days telling Arthur everything and having it out as equals, not now he’s spent so long keeping Arthur ignorant and deciding it all himself. For all his elaborate fantasies, Merlin can’t really conceive of Arthur looking at him with faith and true understanding. If Merlin told Arthur today, it would mean death, or exile, or it would mean one more person crushed by the burden of Merlin’s secret, and one fewer person ever looking at him with anything like affection.
So Merlin has his fantasies. He never kissed lovely Mary back in Ealdor, never even had a chance, but it was pleasant to think about after Will went home and Hunith went to sleep and it was just Merlin, alone beneath his blanket and in his mind, making up pretty pictures that would never be true.
These days he just doesn’t bother waiting until he’s in bed.
(If sometimes Arthur sneaks a glance at his servant and finds that the look in Merlin’s eyes fails to match the cheerful nonsense Merlin’s talking, if sometimes Arthur wishes he were better trusted, if sometimes Arthur sighs and thinks if only… Well. That’s only because he doesn’t know. Merlin’s sure of it.)