Fic: Tristesse [4/8]
A Fanfic in 8 parts,
Title: Tristesse [4/8]
Author: Camelittle
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Warnings/Spoilers: Post season 5. Major 5.13 plot spoilers
Summary: Merlin is suicidal, crushed by the weight of his destiny. Can Arthur save him, and save Albion
Disclaimer: The boys belong to themselves, their characters to the BBC, I'm just doing this for fun
Author's notes: Gwen's present has brought Merlin hope; he seeks his King in the quite, wild spaces.
Chapter 4. Merlin
December 2012
Merlin changed the music to something a bit more upbeat, humming and singing along to the Black Keys "Lonely Boy"
"I've got a love that keeps me waiting," he sang as he tidied up his research files and journals. "I'm a lonely boy, I'm a lo-onely boy. Oh ohohoh, I've got a love that keeps me waiting."
He tidied up his research files Gwen's gift must be a sign of hope. Surely. But then again, what was the point? What could his golden prince do in this day and age? What call was there for a skilled swordsman, handsome and decisive, courageous to the point of insanity, but unable to put his own clothes on, and with no knowledge of the past 1500 years of military development? Just who and what in this cynical age was the spiritual embodiment of Albion, the arbiter of Arthur's return? And why would they give him his Arthur back?
There was a thought on the edge of his mind, something he just had to grasp. He closed his eyes. If in some way, he was the embodiment of Albion... maybe that was it, that was what he needed to work out, maybe it was *his* greatest need that Arthur would come back for. Was that it? If so, how would he bring him back?
Think, Merlin, think. If only he could remember better. He could hold on if he could remember. But the memories were old, old, old. He turned off the music. Too modern. Turned all the lights off, turned out the LEDs and standby buttons, disconnected his mobile and landline, sat in the glow of the fire, lit a candle and went back through some old journals. He had written the stories down long ago to try to stop the forgetting. But now the words on the page seemed more vivid than the memories themselves, and the voices in his head as he read were all his, none of them were real any more. He needed to remember, get the pictures back in his head, awaken his senses, remember Arthur's face and voice and that masculine scent - musk, leather, coal-tar soap, lavender, sweaty armour.
A heavy lorry rattled past his door. He needed to get away from the modern world and into the woods, the quiet, sacred places, reach into himself and tease out the memories from within. Those wild spaces of Albion, potent with life force, had all but vanished from the land, buried under concrete and suburbs, choked by forestry commission plantations; the preternatural intensity and watchfulness of the natural world was dim and fading. But there were exceptions to this rule. He'd found solace in the dwindling wildernesses of the world through his research over the years, and there was still one sacred spot close to home.
And so every day since Gwen gave him the amulet, Merlin disguised himself as an old man, trying not to look too much like Old Emrys, hoping to avoid her following him, and wobbled up the forest track to a National Trust car park and tea shop.
He parked his bike in the forest and carefully pressed his way through the undergrowth, taking care not to be seen, muttering spells to disguise the bike, senses reaching out to check for walkers passing close by. A dense, scratchy area of bramble and blackthorn parted on his command, and he unveiled the entrance to the Crystal Cave, which was still wrapped in magic, his retreat from modern life, the lodestone of his power. He ducked into the cave, wreathing the thicket in magical mist and artfully draped lichens once more, pulled out the amulet, illuminated it with a soft magical light.
There he stared at the amulet amid the crystals, looking for a sign, but the visions in the crystals were stubbornly mundane - swirly mists, grey pavements, rain-slick buildings.
It was on one such agonising evening that he found himself pressing bitter tears between his eyelids, despairing, wishing, praying, when miraculously Arthur's jewel-like eyes appeared to him, glowing in the walls of the cave, and finally he remembered. Arthur, the whole of Arthur, body and voice and noble soul; scent, charisma and sarcasm; he remembered him with utmost clarity and certainty, and knew with sudden joy that his wish had been granted. This was Gwen's gift, this memory. It was beyond all price. Because he was sure that with it Arthur had returned.
He laughed wit exhilaration as he raced his bike back down the hill like a teenager, whooping as he jumped over bumps and puddles, churning up ruts, thrusting thistles, brambles and branches out of his way with his magic. He stood by the lake, panting, breath wisping like dragon flame in the cold night air, moonlight reflecting on his black hair, eyes glinting with magic as he sought the impossible, reaching out with his power to the hidden island of Avalon. A ripple broke the surface, then two, and as he strained with his heightened senses he felt, smelled, heard, a plain wooden boat gliding towards him, jagged mooncast shadows around it
It contained a precious, though enraged, cargo.
And Merlin laughed in sheer delight, splashing into the shallows as he heard a quiet "plop", a loud bellow, and a long-unheard but well-beloved voice uttering obscene oaths and dire invocations.
Arthur. His turnip-pated, addle-brained, arrogant, supercilious, pompous prat of a friend had a returned, and not a moment too soon.