A Thousand Words Unspoken by tigerlady
Title: A Thousand Words Unspoken
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin UST (I'd like to say "slashy like the show" but I don't think I managed to be that blatant.)
Spoilers: 1.10
Summary: Armour isn't always about keeping things out. 800 words, general audience. Thank you to kageygirl for betaing. Set shortly after 'The Moment of Truth'.
Merlin guides the pauldron over Arthur's head, settles it onto his shoulder with practiced ease. Silent, practiced ease. They haven't talked much in the days since Ealdor, a strange tension between them that Merlin can't begin to unknot.
He doesn't think Arthur is angry. Not exactly. Will's confession of sorcery sits between them, but Arthur hasn't spoken of it at all. He hasn't been sullen, or completely withdrawn, yet at times Merlin finds himself being watched, as if Arthur is waiting. For what, Merlin has no idea. It makes him clumsier than usual. More wary of using his magic, to the point that there's a constant ache in his fingers from keeping them curled close. His tongue feels swollen from guarding it against the wrong words slipping out, and he can't seem to find the simple ones that form everyday conversation.
It doesn't matter, though. Even with all of the guilt and fear and sorrow bile-sharp in his gut, Merlin knows that this is where he's meant to be: by Arthur's side. He checks the tightness of the shoulder strap, though Arthur himself adjusted it earlier, and then polishes away a stray smudge below Arthur's coif. He smiles at his vague reflection, struck by a certain nostalgia for his naïveté. When he was a child--or not even that much of a child, truly--he would sometimes dream of Camelot and its many wonders that infrequent travellers told of. Of its gleaming walls of stone and its legions of impressive knights who would ride out, shining like moonsilver in the sun.
Camelot more than met his expectations, and its knights are certainly courageous and mighty--but the armour they wear is functional at best. It might gleam in the brightest sunlight, but it's not weighed down by gilt or crusted with useless jewels. Arthur's is slightly finer than the others', but only in that it is the best crafted, the best cared for. Merlin had hated having to repair and clean and polish it, until he finally understood how very important the job is.
Well, all right. He still hates polishing it, especially if he can't get away with using magic, but he doesn't think that Arthur's a prat for making him do it.
Mostly.
Said prat turns to face him, and Merlin blinks, realizing how badly he's been gathering wool. "Sorry," he murmurs, but Arthur doesn't even raise an imperious eyebrow.
"The hauberk you wore, in Ealdor," he says, gaze on his hands while he tugs at the fit of his gloves. "Gwen's father made it?"
Merlin nods. He still feels slightly guilty about keeping it, but Gwen had told him to stop being silly, that it was an old piece that Tom couldn't sell. He thinks she was lying, but Gaius had given him the eyebrow of certain peril from across the room when he started to protest for the second time, and so now he has a set of mail all his own.
"It's good work. Should serve you well if you need it in the future." Arthur tilts his head slightly, so that he's looking up under his fringe, not quite looking Merlin directly in the eye. "I noticed the vambraces didn't quite fit, though. You might try that pair over there." He nods once, towards an open box Merlin has never seen before. It sits nestled between a well-beaten helm and a pile of gauntlets that seems hopelessly unmatched, and he can see the twin curves of a pair of forearm guards rising above the lip. "I think they'd suit you better."
Merlin looks back to Arthur, uncertain if he is reading the situation right. "I don't really need--"
"You may, some day." Arthur shrugs, then picks up his sword. He swooshes it left, then right, then in a great arc that's controlled just enough to miss Merlin. Then he marches out of the armoury without another word.
Merlin creeps over to the bench where the box is. His blood is racing, as strongly as if he were facing down yet another dangerous foe, and he's not sure why. The vambraces are simple enough, no fancier than the ones Arthur assisted him with in Ealdor. They don't look as if they've seen battle, however, and they gleam nearly as brightly as the armour of his innocent visions. He lifts the right slowly, guides it over his wrist while his pulse beats loud in his ears. The strap slides easily into place, even though his fingers are clumsy with an emotion he's afraid to name.
He picks up the left--and that's when he sees it. Them. A matching pair, engraved small on the underside of the wrist. Right over the most vulnerable bit of flesh.
The Pendragon crest.
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin UST (I'd like to say "slashy like the show" but I don't think I managed to be that blatant.)
Spoilers: 1.10
Summary: Armour isn't always about keeping things out. 800 words, general audience. Thank you to kageygirl for betaing. Set shortly after 'The Moment of Truth'.
Merlin guides the pauldron over Arthur's head, settles it onto his shoulder with practiced ease. Silent, practiced ease. They haven't talked much in the days since Ealdor, a strange tension between them that Merlin can't begin to unknot.
He doesn't think Arthur is angry. Not exactly. Will's confession of sorcery sits between them, but Arthur hasn't spoken of it at all. He hasn't been sullen, or completely withdrawn, yet at times Merlin finds himself being watched, as if Arthur is waiting. For what, Merlin has no idea. It makes him clumsier than usual. More wary of using his magic, to the point that there's a constant ache in his fingers from keeping them curled close. His tongue feels swollen from guarding it against the wrong words slipping out, and he can't seem to find the simple ones that form everyday conversation.
It doesn't matter, though. Even with all of the guilt and fear and sorrow bile-sharp in his gut, Merlin knows that this is where he's meant to be: by Arthur's side. He checks the tightness of the shoulder strap, though Arthur himself adjusted it earlier, and then polishes away a stray smudge below Arthur's coif. He smiles at his vague reflection, struck by a certain nostalgia for his naïveté. When he was a child--or not even that much of a child, truly--he would sometimes dream of Camelot and its many wonders that infrequent travellers told of. Of its gleaming walls of stone and its legions of impressive knights who would ride out, shining like moonsilver in the sun.
Camelot more than met his expectations, and its knights are certainly courageous and mighty--but the armour they wear is functional at best. It might gleam in the brightest sunlight, but it's not weighed down by gilt or crusted with useless jewels. Arthur's is slightly finer than the others', but only in that it is the best crafted, the best cared for. Merlin had hated having to repair and clean and polish it, until he finally understood how very important the job is.
Well, all right. He still hates polishing it, especially if he can't get away with using magic, but he doesn't think that Arthur's a prat for making him do it.
Mostly.
Said prat turns to face him, and Merlin blinks, realizing how badly he's been gathering wool. "Sorry," he murmurs, but Arthur doesn't even raise an imperious eyebrow.
"The hauberk you wore, in Ealdor," he says, gaze on his hands while he tugs at the fit of his gloves. "Gwen's father made it?"
Merlin nods. He still feels slightly guilty about keeping it, but Gwen had told him to stop being silly, that it was an old piece that Tom couldn't sell. He thinks she was lying, but Gaius had given him the eyebrow of certain peril from across the room when he started to protest for the second time, and so now he has a set of mail all his own.
"It's good work. Should serve you well if you need it in the future." Arthur tilts his head slightly, so that he's looking up under his fringe, not quite looking Merlin directly in the eye. "I noticed the vambraces didn't quite fit, though. You might try that pair over there." He nods once, towards an open box Merlin has never seen before. It sits nestled between a well-beaten helm and a pile of gauntlets that seems hopelessly unmatched, and he can see the twin curves of a pair of forearm guards rising above the lip. "I think they'd suit you better."
Merlin looks back to Arthur, uncertain if he is reading the situation right. "I don't really need--"
"You may, some day." Arthur shrugs, then picks up his sword. He swooshes it left, then right, then in a great arc that's controlled just enough to miss Merlin. Then he marches out of the armoury without another word.
Merlin creeps over to the bench where the box is. His blood is racing, as strongly as if he were facing down yet another dangerous foe, and he's not sure why. The vambraces are simple enough, no fancier than the ones Arthur assisted him with in Ealdor. They don't look as if they've seen battle, however, and they gleam nearly as brightly as the armour of his innocent visions. He lifts the right slowly, guides it over his wrist while his pulse beats loud in his ears. The strap slides easily into place, even though his fingers are clumsy with an emotion he's afraid to name.
He picks up the left--and that's when he sees it. Them. A matching pair, engraved small on the underside of the wrist. Right over the most vulnerable bit of flesh.
The Pendragon crest.