In which Merlin is a God and Arthur is his Sun…
Embarrassingly sappy interlude to my ongoing slash-crawl. Enjoy! :D
Title: The Prince and the Pauper (Interlude/?)
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: R for allusions to sex n’stuff
Summary: Arthur and Merlin begin to understand just how big a mess they’ve got themselves into.
Spoilers: Vague spoilers for the series in general.
Warnings: Featuring oblivious!Merlin, confused!Arthur and a criminally slow slash progression
Disclaimer: Tis the Beebs.
Note on this piece of fic that’s too short to be a chapter, and is therefore rather cheatingly called an interlude: I’ve been toying with the idea of delving into Merlin’s powers as a higher form of consciousness for a while now. This was the result. It’s a bit intense, but then again, so is Merlin’s power, according to legend :D
10.
Merlin felt oddly detached from reality.
His patterns of thought were perfectly clear, and he understood his situation (his bizarre situation- cradling the Crown Prince and Dragon spit, wasn’t there a law against such glaring breaches of the social divide?) with startling clarity. And yet, he did not feel entirely himself. He was not…Merlin by definition. He did not feel like Merlin the manservant, or Merlin the serf, or even Merlin, son of Hunith. Magic hummed mildly at his fingertips, sliding soothingly in languid tendrils across Arthur’s flushed skin, murmuring cobweb truths and frail contentment.
Arthur was a pool of heat in his lap, burning, burning. Arthur was always burning, but this time it was…the wrong sort of burning. The harmful sort. Merlin folded his arms more closely around his sun-kissed Prince, and tried not to be charred to cinders.
Arthur knew. Somewhere beneath the arrogance, the denial and the confusion and the sheer bull-headed stubbornness, Arthur knew. Now why did that thought not frighten him? It should.
Arthur moaned softly, a shudder wracking his already fever-drained body with some ungraspable fear. Merlin…or, whoever he was, now…Merlin but not…drew the pad of his thumb across the prince’s sweat-slick forehead and shushed him, sending a pulse of honeyed reassurances through the magic that surrounded them deep into Arthur’s bones. The Prince stilled against him, the anguish falling from his slackening features with a malevolent hiss. But Merlin sees the blackened, mottled touches of evil that mar his Prince’s soul, that fester and rot and eat away. They are wounds that not even magic can erase.
NO!
The creature which may or may not be Merlin suddenly rears and roars it’s terrible rage with deafening anguish, molten anger cascading through the stones of the castle, poisoning the mortar, filling the very veins of the soil and the shell of the sky with hatred. Trees cowered, rivers rose up to burst their banks in vengeance and the entire earth knew of its master’s anger.
“Somebody hurt you.” Emrys said silently, terribly, as he breathed the pain of his master, his charge, his friend, his world “I will find them. Even if I forget, I will remember and I will find them and you will be safe, my Sun.” he rocks slightly, murmurs sweet nothings against Arthur’s hair, and clings to his power even as he feels himself being pulled back into these wretched, fleshy mortal confines “I swear it.”
Emrys closes his eyes, then opens them; now more Merlin, now more man than God.
“You’re not going to remember any of this in the morning.” He mutters detachedly, emotionless, and although he is not sure how, he knows it is the truth. Why are the pretty ones always so stupid? “I don’t think I will either.” Won’t…what? Oh, yes, remember. Remember what? This…night. This power. This Oath.
“One day.” He feels his mortal voice shake, his dry throat producing a reed-thin proclamation “One day we will be known to each other, but not yet.” He presses his cheek to Arthur’s cooled brow, now clammy with the touch of magic, and silently vows to smother the blackened touches of the offending mortal with his own, but- “Not yet.” He breathes, sharply, inhales the jagged tang of sorcery and sweat and the coppery promise of blood “Patience.” He whispers, unsure if he is talking to himself or the Prince. He turns his head, and his eyelashes caress the surface of Arthur’s skin like butterfly wings.
Their lips meet, and suddenly nothing has either beginning or end, and the spell breaks.
The higher plane of consciousness slips from his drowsy mind like glade-water through brittle fingers, like white sand through the spun neck of an hourglass. And when the sun rises and the shadows grudgingly recede into obscurity, they are themselves again.
&&&
I actually never intended this little rascal to come to fruition. I was going to skip straight to Arthur waking up and snarking, but I was in an oddly sappy, epic mood today, so. Comments are appreciated, as ever!