fic: but how strange, the change (from major to minor)
It is perhaps worth noting that I know fuck-all about Arthurian legend/British history/mythology. But any story that manages to allude both to Cole Porter and Frankie Boyle is pretty special in my books. Also: there will be typos.
but how strange, the change (from major to minor)
{ merlin, merlin/arthur, slash, angsty!schmoopy!humour. PG }
"You should have trusted me,” Arthur says through the dungeon bars. It’s worth knowing that if Merlin’s imprisoned, it’s most certainly Arthur’s fault; and that if he ever gets out he’ll never be welcome alive in Uther’s court.
note: this is chronologically all over the place.
-
“You should have trusted me,” Arthur says through the dungeon bars.
Merlin’s been through this scene a thousand times in his head, with a thousand different endings and a thousand beginnings. Been through every possible line in his head over and over, every excuse and every denial, but what he actually ends up saying is -
“It was never about trust, Arthur.” And surprisingly, this is true.
Here’s the thing: Arthur sounds hurt, betrayed, and upset, but not angry- and Merlin knows it’s going to be okay.
Merlin can’t hold back his yelp as the wave of water hits him in the chest - he watches in awe as bursts of salty water continue to scour the castle walls.
Someone yells “Sorcery!” and Merlin thinks, No, really, as he scrabbles for a finger-hold in the stone. Ice-cold water drags fiercely on his clothes and if this continues he’s probably going to be flushed right out of the castle, whooshing along corridors before finally being spat out of a window somewhere. But Merlin doesn’t think of that
He thinks of Arthur, in his chain mail and hulking armour, with his sword and shield and his thick, heavy-laced boots - Arthur, who dressed thinking that he faced a normal enemy.
He thinks of Arthur, who is just a man, trying to fight a sorcerer, without Merlin there to help.
He thinks of Arthur, who may be a good swimmer but certainly doesn’t have gills, and he takes a deep breath and dives.
And so later, when the question comes - “What were you thinking?!”
- the answer is easy.
His eyes flash gold and the water cuts around his hands; Merlin swims up current, towards the source of the power. He can feel the magic in the water trembling feebly, around him and wonders if it would be too obvious to simply unravel the enchantment. Probably yes. The sorcerer would notice even if no one else did.
Merlin surfaces with a gasp when he reaches the great hall. And sure enough, there is Arthur, trying to use his shield to block the water (and you gotta give him points for perseverance if nothing else).
Siward raises his sword, and the water pulls into a column around the prince.
Even through his salt-stung eyes, Merlin sees real fear, real pain, lurch across Arthur’s face as the water becomes warm, then hot, then scalding. Even through his waterlogged ears, Merlin hears the desperate, futile shouts of the angered king. Even through the haze of his oxygen-deprived brain, he knows, he knows he has no choice.
Merlin raises his hand.
He thinks, it’s a shame: in another life, in another time, he could’ve liked Siward. In another life, in another time, it may not have come to this.
In another life, in another time, maybe Merlin wouldn’t have to kill him.
Remember this, for future loneliness: the shadow of Arthur’s eyelashes in the torchlight, the white of his knuckles as they grip the bars, the shape of his stupid pointy teeth, bitten into his lip. Catalogue it; store it away.
Merlin gives a crooked smile to Arthur’s obvious distress. It shouldn’t be funny, but it is. “Tell you what. Before I go, I’ll enchant your armour. Make it float.” He wiggles his fingers in a clumsy mime. The shackles don’t help.
The joke falls even flatter than it should, because Arthur meets his eyes all desperation and says fiercely, “You’re not going to go anywhere, Merlin.”
Merlin swallows the inappropriate laugh that bubbles up inside him. He may be going slightly mad. Madder. “Come on, Arthur. What are you going to do? You’re pushing your boundaries by being here already.” Arthur continues to look doggedly determined, so Merlin adds, softly, “What would your father think, Arthur?”
At this, Arthur flinches, but he returns hotly, “I’m not my father. And I don’t care what he thinks. Morgana said- the kind of King that -” he breaks off, licks his lips. “It’s not important. I’ll think of something. You’re not going anywhere, I’m not going to let you die.”
“Lord Tirchanus of Penychen,” announces the guard, “and his knight, Sir Siward.”
Merlin resists rolling his eyes but they still flit to the ceiling - he dislikes pomp and ceremony and the best of times. The Lord wears a thick red fur coat that trails behind him, and his fingers are heavy with thick, glistening rings. His knight glistens too; the light reflects off his shiny plates and buttons, and, oddly enough, his moustache. The sword that hangs about his waist is thickly encrusted with pearls. Merlin will think later, that there was something tawdry about all this glitter and gloss. At the time, he will simply be bored and his back will be stiff.
“Tirchanus,” Uther says, with one of his most indulgent and most meaningless smiles, “It has been too long.”
“Indeed,” replies the Lord richly, with a smile of equal magnitude. “Far, far too long, old friend. I don’t believe you’ve even met young Siward here.” The shiny knight smiles, bows.
“I don’t believe I have,” Uther acknowledges. It could go down in history as one of the most boring conversations ever.
Merlin discreetly checks his pulse to see if his heart’s still beating.
Merlin has no intention of dying, either, which means he certainly has no intention of staying put. But to tell Arthur this wouldn’t do him much better than any of his previous arguments. Merlin sighs, loudly, and almost doesn’t hear Arthur say, “You can’t leave me, Merlin. You can’t.”
No, Merlin thinks, that’s exactly what I can do. What he can’t do is put Gaius, Gwen, and Morgana through this. What he can’t do, is drag Arthur down with him. What he can’t, is let Arthur lose his father’s trust.
What he can’t, is stay.
“I don’t see why you have to fight him.” Merlin tightens the straps on Arthur’s pauldron.
“It’s not a real fight, Mer-lin,” Arthur drawls, “It’s just for fun. And besides, when I win, it helps re-establish my position as their future king.”
“If you win,” Merlin mutters, mostly to be contrary. He furtively wipes some dirt of one of Arthur’s vambraces.
It seemed like the world’s most pointless fight, but trust Arthur to think that trying to kill someone was prime pre-dinner entertainment. In a way it was hardly surprising; Tirchanus had spent much time bragging about the shiny knight’s military prowess, and the knight had spent much time smirking and stroking his pearly sword in a way that entirely suggestive (by the way the serving girls were giggling and blushing). Uther’s smile had grown increasingly strained, and Arthur, who wasn’t much for smiling at men, had looked increasingly mulish.
“Do you think I’ll lose, then?” Arthur scoffs.
“They say he’s very good,” Merlin lies, because he hadn’t actually been paying that much attention. “The serving girls seem to like him.”
Arthur frowns at the leather of his right gauntlet. “They do, don’t they. It’s odd.” Then he looks at Merlin with curious intensity. “Do you think he’s handsome?”
As far as ‘odd-questions-he’s-been-asked-by-Arthur’ goes, this -sadly- doesn’t rank very highly, but Merlin’s still surprised enough to answer honestly. “I don’t know. I’m not really one for moustaches.”
Arthur drops his gaze to Merlin’s mouth appraisingly. “No,” he says after a while, “I can see why not.” Then, even stranger, “Good. That’s good.”
On this confusing note, Arthur turns around abruptly, ending the conversation.
Merlin touches his upper-lip self-consciously.
Gwen will simply sigh - “Oh, Merlin.”
He won’t be able to meet her eyes.
“Magical water-producing pearls?” Merlin repeats incredulously. “Please tell me this is a joke, Gaius.”
Gaius shakes his head, looking awfully serious for a person who has just used the phrase ‘magical water-producing pearls’. “I’m afraid not, Merlin. I had my suspicions when I saw the young man earlier, and reading this book …my fears are confirmed.”
“But seriously,” Merlin tries, “He’s name’s Siward. Isn’t that too…convenient?”
Another solemn shake of the head. “That really cinches the matter. The sword was a famous magical artefact - your Siward must be a descendant of Dylan, and a sorcerer.”
Merlin’s jaw drops, a few jokes popping into his head - what was Siward going to do, splash Arthur to death? Ruin his hair? - when all of the day’s events start to make sense. The flagrant baiting of Arthur, the strange shininess of the guests, even the - well, not the moustache, that was just bad taste - but everything else screamed ‘Uther’s welcomed another magical being to sup with him and try to kill Arthur’.
He’d just managed to wrap his mind around the whole thing, when water started to lap at his feet.
“Oh dear,” says Gaius, raising his hems.
Merlin takes off running.
The shackles tighten painfully against his wrist as he reaches out, stretches so he can touch the bars. Merlin finds Arthur’s fingers, and curls his own around them. Whispers, “Arthur.”
Arthur looks up slowly. Merlin says, “It’ll be alright, I’ll be alright”, and tries for an encouraging grin but he probably hits closer to ‘pained grimace’ because Arthur frowns suddenly and his eyes dart to Merlin’s restraints.
“Don’t even think about it,” Merlin warns. He leans as close as he can to Arthur, even though the bribed guards aren’t even listening. “Don’t worry, I’ll take them off soon enough.”
If anything, Arthur’s frown deepens. But he says, almost light-heartedly, “Not staying put then? You always were a terrible servant, Merlin.”
“What’s with the past tense? I am a terrible servant. I think I’ll continue being a terrible servant for a long time yet.” Merlin pauses meaningfully. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
Smoke clears and water dries - Merlin drops his hand.
“Restrain him,” Uther’s voice cuts cold across the room. You have to give it to him; he really does recover quickly.
The guards seize his hands and cover his mouth - useless, really, considering the display he’s just given them - but he doesn’t even fight back.
He wants to look to Arthur, smile, say “How’s that for pre-dinner entertainment?” He wants to look for an answering grin, wants to hope for it.
There’s a sudden, exquisite pain to the side of his head, and he crumples.
Merlin tilts forward until his forehead rests against Arthur’s. He lets out a shuddering breath and Arthur says, “Are you crying, you big girl,” and Merlin shoots back, “Shut-up, so what if I am,” and Arthur laughs -
And if Arthur’s eyes are a little shiny too, no one mentions it.
“You’ll be back won’t you?”
“Do you have to ask?”
“That’s not an answer,” Arthur whispers. His nose bumps against Merlin’s.
And when Arthur says his name, almost reverently, Merlin just lets his sigh ghost across Arthur’s mouth -
Because he’s been through this scene a thousand times or more, and he’s so very, very tired.
but how strange, the change (from major to minor)
{ merlin, merlin/arthur, slash, angsty!schmoopy!humour. PG }
"You should have trusted me,” Arthur says through the dungeon bars. It’s worth knowing that if Merlin’s imprisoned, it’s most certainly Arthur’s fault; and that if he ever gets out he’ll never be welcome alive in Uther’s court.
note: this is chronologically all over the place.
-
“You should have trusted me,” Arthur says through the dungeon bars.
Merlin’s been through this scene a thousand times in his head, with a thousand different endings and a thousand beginnings. Been through every possible line in his head over and over, every excuse and every denial, but what he actually ends up saying is -
“It was never about trust, Arthur.” And surprisingly, this is true.
Here’s the thing: Arthur sounds hurt, betrayed, and upset, but not angry- and Merlin knows it’s going to be okay.
Merlin can’t hold back his yelp as the wave of water hits him in the chest - he watches in awe as bursts of salty water continue to scour the castle walls.
Someone yells “Sorcery!” and Merlin thinks, No, really, as he scrabbles for a finger-hold in the stone. Ice-cold water drags fiercely on his clothes and if this continues he’s probably going to be flushed right out of the castle, whooshing along corridors before finally being spat out of a window somewhere. But Merlin doesn’t think of that
He thinks of Arthur, in his chain mail and hulking armour, with his sword and shield and his thick, heavy-laced boots - Arthur, who dressed thinking that he faced a normal enemy.
He thinks of Arthur, who is just a man, trying to fight a sorcerer, without Merlin there to help.
He thinks of Arthur, who may be a good swimmer but certainly doesn’t have gills, and he takes a deep breath and dives.
And so later, when the question comes - “What were you thinking?!”
- the answer is easy.
His eyes flash gold and the water cuts around his hands; Merlin swims up current, towards the source of the power. He can feel the magic in the water trembling feebly, around him and wonders if it would be too obvious to simply unravel the enchantment. Probably yes. The sorcerer would notice even if no one else did.
Merlin surfaces with a gasp when he reaches the great hall. And sure enough, there is Arthur, trying to use his shield to block the water (and you gotta give him points for perseverance if nothing else).
Siward raises his sword, and the water pulls into a column around the prince.
Even through his salt-stung eyes, Merlin sees real fear, real pain, lurch across Arthur’s face as the water becomes warm, then hot, then scalding. Even through his waterlogged ears, Merlin hears the desperate, futile shouts of the angered king. Even through the haze of his oxygen-deprived brain, he knows, he knows he has no choice.
Merlin raises his hand.
He thinks, it’s a shame: in another life, in another time, he could’ve liked Siward. In another life, in another time, it may not have come to this.
In another life, in another time, maybe Merlin wouldn’t have to kill him.
Remember this, for future loneliness: the shadow of Arthur’s eyelashes in the torchlight, the white of his knuckles as they grip the bars, the shape of his stupid pointy teeth, bitten into his lip. Catalogue it; store it away.
Merlin gives a crooked smile to Arthur’s obvious distress. It shouldn’t be funny, but it is. “Tell you what. Before I go, I’ll enchant your armour. Make it float.” He wiggles his fingers in a clumsy mime. The shackles don’t help.
The joke falls even flatter than it should, because Arthur meets his eyes all desperation and says fiercely, “You’re not going to go anywhere, Merlin.”
Merlin swallows the inappropriate laugh that bubbles up inside him. He may be going slightly mad. Madder. “Come on, Arthur. What are you going to do? You’re pushing your boundaries by being here already.” Arthur continues to look doggedly determined, so Merlin adds, softly, “What would your father think, Arthur?”
At this, Arthur flinches, but he returns hotly, “I’m not my father. And I don’t care what he thinks. Morgana said- the kind of King that -” he breaks off, licks his lips. “It’s not important. I’ll think of something. You’re not going anywhere, I’m not going to let you die.”
“Lord Tirchanus of Penychen,” announces the guard, “and his knight, Sir Siward.”
Merlin resists rolling his eyes but they still flit to the ceiling - he dislikes pomp and ceremony and the best of times. The Lord wears a thick red fur coat that trails behind him, and his fingers are heavy with thick, glistening rings. His knight glistens too; the light reflects off his shiny plates and buttons, and, oddly enough, his moustache. The sword that hangs about his waist is thickly encrusted with pearls. Merlin will think later, that there was something tawdry about all this glitter and gloss. At the time, he will simply be bored and his back will be stiff.
“Tirchanus,” Uther says, with one of his most indulgent and most meaningless smiles, “It has been too long.”
“Indeed,” replies the Lord richly, with a smile of equal magnitude. “Far, far too long, old friend. I don’t believe you’ve even met young Siward here.” The shiny knight smiles, bows.
“I don’t believe I have,” Uther acknowledges. It could go down in history as one of the most boring conversations ever.
Merlin discreetly checks his pulse to see if his heart’s still beating.
Merlin has no intention of dying, either, which means he certainly has no intention of staying put. But to tell Arthur this wouldn’t do him much better than any of his previous arguments. Merlin sighs, loudly, and almost doesn’t hear Arthur say, “You can’t leave me, Merlin. You can’t.”
No, Merlin thinks, that’s exactly what I can do. What he can’t do is put Gaius, Gwen, and Morgana through this. What he can’t do, is drag Arthur down with him. What he can’t, is let Arthur lose his father’s trust.
What he can’t, is stay.
“I don’t see why you have to fight him.” Merlin tightens the straps on Arthur’s pauldron.
“It’s not a real fight, Mer-lin,” Arthur drawls, “It’s just for fun. And besides, when I win, it helps re-establish my position as their future king.”
“If you win,” Merlin mutters, mostly to be contrary. He furtively wipes some dirt of one of Arthur’s vambraces.
It seemed like the world’s most pointless fight, but trust Arthur to think that trying to kill someone was prime pre-dinner entertainment. In a way it was hardly surprising; Tirchanus had spent much time bragging about the shiny knight’s military prowess, and the knight had spent much time smirking and stroking his pearly sword in a way that entirely suggestive (by the way the serving girls were giggling and blushing). Uther’s smile had grown increasingly strained, and Arthur, who wasn’t much for smiling at men, had looked increasingly mulish.
“Do you think I’ll lose, then?” Arthur scoffs.
“They say he’s very good,” Merlin lies, because he hadn’t actually been paying that much attention. “The serving girls seem to like him.”
Arthur frowns at the leather of his right gauntlet. “They do, don’t they. It’s odd.” Then he looks at Merlin with curious intensity. “Do you think he’s handsome?”
As far as ‘odd-questions-he’s-been-asked-by-Arthur’ goes, this -sadly- doesn’t rank very highly, but Merlin’s still surprised enough to answer honestly. “I don’t know. I’m not really one for moustaches.”
Arthur drops his gaze to Merlin’s mouth appraisingly. “No,” he says after a while, “I can see why not.” Then, even stranger, “Good. That’s good.”
On this confusing note, Arthur turns around abruptly, ending the conversation.
Merlin touches his upper-lip self-consciously.
Gwen will simply sigh - “Oh, Merlin.”
He won’t be able to meet her eyes.
“Magical water-producing pearls?” Merlin repeats incredulously. “Please tell me this is a joke, Gaius.”
Gaius shakes his head, looking awfully serious for a person who has just used the phrase ‘magical water-producing pearls’. “I’m afraid not, Merlin. I had my suspicions when I saw the young man earlier, and reading this book …my fears are confirmed.”
“But seriously,” Merlin tries, “He’s name’s Siward. Isn’t that too…convenient?”
Another solemn shake of the head. “That really cinches the matter. The sword was a famous magical artefact - your Siward must be a descendant of Dylan, and a sorcerer.”
Merlin’s jaw drops, a few jokes popping into his head - what was Siward going to do, splash Arthur to death? Ruin his hair? - when all of the day’s events start to make sense. The flagrant baiting of Arthur, the strange shininess of the guests, even the - well, not the moustache, that was just bad taste - but everything else screamed ‘Uther’s welcomed another magical being to sup with him and try to kill Arthur’.
He’d just managed to wrap his mind around the whole thing, when water started to lap at his feet.
“Oh dear,” says Gaius, raising his hems.
Merlin takes off running.
The shackles tighten painfully against his wrist as he reaches out, stretches so he can touch the bars. Merlin finds Arthur’s fingers, and curls his own around them. Whispers, “Arthur.”
Arthur looks up slowly. Merlin says, “It’ll be alright, I’ll be alright”, and tries for an encouraging grin but he probably hits closer to ‘pained grimace’ because Arthur frowns suddenly and his eyes dart to Merlin’s restraints.
“Don’t even think about it,” Merlin warns. He leans as close as he can to Arthur, even though the bribed guards aren’t even listening. “Don’t worry, I’ll take them off soon enough.”
If anything, Arthur’s frown deepens. But he says, almost light-heartedly, “Not staying put then? You always were a terrible servant, Merlin.”
“What’s with the past tense? I am a terrible servant. I think I’ll continue being a terrible servant for a long time yet.” Merlin pauses meaningfully. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
Smoke clears and water dries - Merlin drops his hand.
“Restrain him,” Uther’s voice cuts cold across the room. You have to give it to him; he really does recover quickly.
The guards seize his hands and cover his mouth - useless, really, considering the display he’s just given them - but he doesn’t even fight back.
He wants to look to Arthur, smile, say “How’s that for pre-dinner entertainment?” He wants to look for an answering grin, wants to hope for it.
There’s a sudden, exquisite pain to the side of his head, and he crumples.
Merlin tilts forward until his forehead rests against Arthur’s. He lets out a shuddering breath and Arthur says, “Are you crying, you big girl,” and Merlin shoots back, “Shut-up, so what if I am,” and Arthur laughs -
And if Arthur’s eyes are a little shiny too, no one mentions it.
“You’ll be back won’t you?”
“Do you have to ask?”
“That’s not an answer,” Arthur whispers. His nose bumps against Merlin’s.
And when Arthur says his name, almost reverently, Merlin just lets his sigh ghost across Arthur’s mouth -
Because he’s been through this scene a thousand times or more, and he’s so very, very tired.