Missing Armour - Gen, Reincarnation
Author: leviathans_moon
Title: Missing Armour
Fandom: Merlin
Genre: Reincarnation, modern!AU, WWI
Rating: R (mentions of war)
warning: mentioned character death (Gwaine)
word count: 1055
Comment: Thanks to all the encouragement and cheering over on gsd_fandom chat on mibbit and gsd_catchup.
This was inspired by the following picture prompt from 120_minuten.
here
Thanks Wino and Rei.
They were showered with dirt, as they trudged the wooden boards into the mud. The support trench almost looked as bad as the front line, both scars in the landscape healed over and torn up again and again. New recruits squeezed past them, their expressions a mixture of panic and anxiety. They were half stumbling, half ducking at more dirt being sent into the air by shell bombs. The excitement of 1914 was gone. It had only been the aftertaste of the old world order. He'd known it wouldn't last.
He looked at the man walking in front of him. The hair sticking out from under the helmet had lost its glow, most of it hidden under mud and soot. Thin lines of sweat were making their way down the neck and into the brown heavy tunic. Even from behind Merlin could see the exhaustion that he himself felt in every fibre of his body.
They turned right into a communication trench, while bombs kept falling behind them. Gwaine's face flashed in front of his eyes with every explosion.
One of the oncoming soldiers stumbled over his own feet and into him, knocking him into the parapet.
"Sorry, I'm sorry," stumbled the young boy who couldn't be more than 16. Merlin didn't answer, just straightened up and nodded at Arthur to keep going. He ignored the dumbfounded look of the boy and trudged on in the familiar pace.
They reached the reserve trenches, which seemed a little bit cleaner, a little bit less dead. There was a small commotion down the line, holding up the march forwards. Arthur turned around with a look in his eyes that Merlin didn't like. He took off his helmet and ruffled up his hair, just to have an excuse to avoid that look. He replaced the helmet and kicked a rat away from his shoes. It flew against the wall of mud, squealed and then scrambled down the line, looking for a hole to disappear in. Merlin was itching to turn himself into a rat.
The sergeant yelled from the front of the line and the parade of walking dead marched on.
Eventually they left the reserve trenches and reached the fields beyond. Small patches of grass grew out of black and brown sludge and were trampled by hundreds of feet and thousands of machines.
Their company fell into a rough formation behind the last parapet of the reserve trenches. Both the sergeant and the lieutenant were too exhausted to criticise the uneven ranks.
"Alright, lads, settle down, get some food over there," the sergeant pointed at a make-shift kitchen right next to the hospital station. "You have an hour before we move on."
"Move on where, sir?" asked William.
"Hell if I know. Get somethin' to eat."
Merlin exhaled loudly and slumped down where he stood, crawled two feet backwards, closer to the parapet. Arthur took off his backpack and threw it down next to him.
"Give me your bowl," he said, holding out his hand.
"Blown apart."
Arthur flinched. "Um..your cup then."
Merlin fumbled for it within the depths of his pack, eventually freeing it from the cloth.
"Back in a few," said Arthur, that look in his eyes again.
Flinging his helmet into the mud, Merlin leaned forward and placed his head in his hands. He didn't want to look around at what was left of their company. He wanted to disappear.
He knew Arthur wouldn't let him.
The sun hit his sand-covered hair, a hot blast sending more sweat down the back of his neck. He smudged the shiny pearls into the million particles of dirt on his skin and wiped his hand on a patch of grass. The tingling sensation across his palm felt surreal as if he were touching these enduring plants for the first time.
Arthur returned with a splash of stew in each cup, handing the larger portion to Merlin. He sat down next to him heavily, and the field filled with an eerie silence as each soldier ate their share of stew. Only the bombs kept falling and new graves kept opening.
Arthur finished his stew within two minutes, the spoon hitting the tin repeatedly in search of more. Without saying a word, Merlin switched the cups, his untouched stew gaping at Arthur's hungry eyes.
"You have to eat, too, Merlin," he said.
"Not hungry."
"Merlin."
"Not hungry."
Arthur hesitated, but Merlin continued to look downward, fumbling with the threads on his boots. The water, the mud, it all took its toll on them, tearing the sole from the leather.
Arthur finished the stew, his stomach calming down slowly. It still wasn't enough, but he hoped for something else wherever they were going next. Even if they did go back in the trenches, rats didn't make such a bad meal after all.
"I've decided," said Arthur suddenly. "I prefer medieval combat."
Merlin barely raised his head, as he mumbled: "You miss your sword?"
"No,.., well, yes, but..that's not what I mean."
Merlin looked up, watched as multitudes of thoughts raced across Arthur's face.
"It's... yes, I had a sword and armour, but there was also someone there, directly opposite me, and... and I... it was just, there was a purpose." Arthur looked at Merlin, brows furrowed. "We all had a purpose and we all worked toward that purpose. Even you, without sword or armour, or even without your magic, standing at the back of the field, you had a purpose. And... and Gwaine-"
"Don't!"
But Arthur had to, and Merlin knew that. Merlin knew Arthur wanted an answer. "What was the purpose of that?"
"Please don't!"
"No, Merlin. I don't get it. Why are we here? Why do I have an image of Gwaine being blown apart in front of my eyes? I will have this image for the rest of our reincarnated lives. Why?" Arthur's throat tightened, his chest heaved almost painfully, and yet it was nothing compared to what Merlin felt. "Aren't you supposed to know, Merlin?"
Arthur didn't wait for an answer. He simply shifted his position and pulled Merlin close, holding him, returning the favour fifteen hundred years later. And Merlin pressed his face into the greyish uniform that scratched his skin and smelled of death.
"Why are we even here?" whispered Arthur.
Merlin couldn't answer.
Title: Missing Armour
Fandom: Merlin
Genre: Reincarnation, modern!AU, WWI
Rating: R (mentions of war)
warning: mentioned character death (Gwaine)
word count: 1055
Comment: Thanks to all the encouragement and cheering over on gsd_fandom chat on mibbit and gsd_catchup.
This was inspired by the following picture prompt from 120_minuten.
here
Thanks Wino and Rei.
They were showered with dirt, as they trudged the wooden boards into the mud. The support trench almost looked as bad as the front line, both scars in the landscape healed over and torn up again and again. New recruits squeezed past them, their expressions a mixture of panic and anxiety. They were half stumbling, half ducking at more dirt being sent into the air by shell bombs. The excitement of 1914 was gone. It had only been the aftertaste of the old world order. He'd known it wouldn't last.
He looked at the man walking in front of him. The hair sticking out from under the helmet had lost its glow, most of it hidden under mud and soot. Thin lines of sweat were making their way down the neck and into the brown heavy tunic. Even from behind Merlin could see the exhaustion that he himself felt in every fibre of his body.
They turned right into a communication trench, while bombs kept falling behind them. Gwaine's face flashed in front of his eyes with every explosion.
One of the oncoming soldiers stumbled over his own feet and into him, knocking him into the parapet.
"Sorry, I'm sorry," stumbled the young boy who couldn't be more than 16. Merlin didn't answer, just straightened up and nodded at Arthur to keep going. He ignored the dumbfounded look of the boy and trudged on in the familiar pace.
They reached the reserve trenches, which seemed a little bit cleaner, a little bit less dead. There was a small commotion down the line, holding up the march forwards. Arthur turned around with a look in his eyes that Merlin didn't like. He took off his helmet and ruffled up his hair, just to have an excuse to avoid that look. He replaced the helmet and kicked a rat away from his shoes. It flew against the wall of mud, squealed and then scrambled down the line, looking for a hole to disappear in. Merlin was itching to turn himself into a rat.
The sergeant yelled from the front of the line and the parade of walking dead marched on.
Eventually they left the reserve trenches and reached the fields beyond. Small patches of grass grew out of black and brown sludge and were trampled by hundreds of feet and thousands of machines.
Their company fell into a rough formation behind the last parapet of the reserve trenches. Both the sergeant and the lieutenant were too exhausted to criticise the uneven ranks.
"Alright, lads, settle down, get some food over there," the sergeant pointed at a make-shift kitchen right next to the hospital station. "You have an hour before we move on."
"Move on where, sir?" asked William.
"Hell if I know. Get somethin' to eat."
Merlin exhaled loudly and slumped down where he stood, crawled two feet backwards, closer to the parapet. Arthur took off his backpack and threw it down next to him.
"Give me your bowl," he said, holding out his hand.
"Blown apart."
Arthur flinched. "Um..your cup then."
Merlin fumbled for it within the depths of his pack, eventually freeing it from the cloth.
"Back in a few," said Arthur, that look in his eyes again.
Flinging his helmet into the mud, Merlin leaned forward and placed his head in his hands. He didn't want to look around at what was left of their company. He wanted to disappear.
He knew Arthur wouldn't let him.
The sun hit his sand-covered hair, a hot blast sending more sweat down the back of his neck. He smudged the shiny pearls into the million particles of dirt on his skin and wiped his hand on a patch of grass. The tingling sensation across his palm felt surreal as if he were touching these enduring plants for the first time.
Arthur returned with a splash of stew in each cup, handing the larger portion to Merlin. He sat down next to him heavily, and the field filled with an eerie silence as each soldier ate their share of stew. Only the bombs kept falling and new graves kept opening.
Arthur finished his stew within two minutes, the spoon hitting the tin repeatedly in search of more. Without saying a word, Merlin switched the cups, his untouched stew gaping at Arthur's hungry eyes.
"You have to eat, too, Merlin," he said.
"Not hungry."
"Merlin."
"Not hungry."
Arthur hesitated, but Merlin continued to look downward, fumbling with the threads on his boots. The water, the mud, it all took its toll on them, tearing the sole from the leather.
Arthur finished the stew, his stomach calming down slowly. It still wasn't enough, but he hoped for something else wherever they were going next. Even if they did go back in the trenches, rats didn't make such a bad meal after all.
"I've decided," said Arthur suddenly. "I prefer medieval combat."
Merlin barely raised his head, as he mumbled: "You miss your sword?"
"No,.., well, yes, but..that's not what I mean."
Merlin looked up, watched as multitudes of thoughts raced across Arthur's face.
"It's... yes, I had a sword and armour, but there was also someone there, directly opposite me, and... and I... it was just, there was a purpose." Arthur looked at Merlin, brows furrowed. "We all had a purpose and we all worked toward that purpose. Even you, without sword or armour, or even without your magic, standing at the back of the field, you had a purpose. And... and Gwaine-"
"Don't!"
But Arthur had to, and Merlin knew that. Merlin knew Arthur wanted an answer. "What was the purpose of that?"
"Please don't!"
"No, Merlin. I don't get it. Why are we here? Why do I have an image of Gwaine being blown apart in front of my eyes? I will have this image for the rest of our reincarnated lives. Why?" Arthur's throat tightened, his chest heaved almost painfully, and yet it was nothing compared to what Merlin felt. "Aren't you supposed to know, Merlin?"
Arthur didn't wait for an answer. He simply shifted his position and pulled Merlin close, holding him, returning the favour fifteen hundred years later. And Merlin pressed his face into the greyish uniform that scratched his skin and smelled of death.
"Why are we even here?" whispered Arthur.
Merlin couldn't answer.