fic: The thin chain of next moments
My first Merlin fic! ARGH THIS FANDOM IS LIKE HEROIN. The kind where you just lean in for a taste, and end up in a strange place thirteen hours later, with bleary eyes and no clue what you just did or how you got there. And do you know what the best part is? I NO LONGER HAVE TO CONFORM TO THE TYRANNY OF AMERICANISMS. YES.
Oh my God. I'm insanely nervous about this right now.
The thin chain of next moments.
[Arthur/Merlin, pg13, 1680wds]
There has only been one constant in Merlin's life and it's proven quite useful, really.
The first thing Merlin remembers is Magic.
His mother drops his favourite toy - a roughly hewn horse that Will’s father carved from the last of the winter firewood - and it freezes before it hits the ground.
He has to stretch to reach it, his chubby baby fingers grabbing it from thin air, and he doesn’t notice that his mother has gone pale, her hands clamped against her mouth.
She tries dropping it again the next day, and Merlin cries when it splinters on the floor.
-
It gets harder to control when Merlin hits adolescence, when he’s thirteen and doesn’t fit inside his skin.
Things crumble under his hands, his bed shakes when he dreams, and he gets used to his mother shaking him awake at night, just as the glow is fading from his skin.
For the first time, he can feel the heat behind his eyelids and the trembling in his palms.
He spends a lot of time by himself in the woods - certainly not doing what all the village elders think he is doing, the dirty-minded fools - and he truly scares himself for the first time when he tries to weave dead vines into a basket for his mother.
The vines come to life, brightening to a vibrant green, and start flowering right in front of Merlin’s eyes. The flowers are white with a golden centre, the colour of the daisies that grow on the other side of the river. But these are different, delicate, the petals longer and shapelier, and they wilt under the weight of the sun.
They’re dead within ten minutes, the vines along with them. The petals turn a soft grey, the buds brittle and black. Merlin touches one, and it falls to pieces under his hand, crumbling like it was made of ash.
Merlin brought something to life. He’s pretty sure that’s a line no one’s supposed to cross.
-
The day he meets Arthur, all his cupboards slam so hard the hinge on his wardrobe breaks.
No matter how hard he tries, he can’t repair it with magic, even with the words Gaius gave him, and he knows better than to fix it the usual way. Even in a new town, new job (he thinks Arthur’s such a prat and the books fly off the shelf) and new knowledge, he’s still the same Merlin who can’t be trusted with a sword lest he trip and impale himself on it.
After that, Gaius starts locking all his bottles of brews and potions in a heavy wooden chest, when Merlin discovers how brittle the glass really is.
-
The day Merlin shoots a firebolt is a good day.
-
The first time Arthur kisses Merlin, the lamps glow impossibly brighter.
Merlin doesn’t think Arthur notices, his eyes screwed shut as Merlin thrusts in and out. God, Arthur chokes, and Merlin can’t take his eyes off the way the light reflects off the sweat of Arthur’s collarbone.
-
Her dagger is pressed against Uther’s throat. A drop of blood drips down into his collar, as red as the flags of Camelot.
“Sorcerer,” she hisses. “Emerys.”
Her life has cost her. Nimueh holds the weapon to Uther with a gnarled and withered hand, and her hair wisps out from under the cowl of her silver hood, grey and insubstantial.
The banquet room has been decorated for a feast, tapestries high on the walls and shields hanging from the ceiling. All the noblemen and their wives, as well as the knights and servants, have pressed themselves as far away from the head of the table as they can, unable to escape through the locked doors. Nimueh has her back against the wall, Uther shielding the front of her, and she laughs at the swords that most of the knights have drawn. Most of the weapons are light, flexible rapiers, used for fashion rather than battle.
“Reveal yourself,” Nimueh says, and Uther grunts as she presses the knife harder.
The whole court turns their head when the doors open, squealing on their hinges. The magical lock only prevents people from getting out, apparently, as Arthur strides into the room unchallenged.
“Let him go,” Arthur says, danger wrapped around every syllable. His sword doesn’t waver in his hand.
Nimueh doesn’t bat an eyelash. She raises her head proudly, and the hood falls back from her face, the material bunching around her neck. She pays as much attention to Arthur as she would a fly.
“You know I will not harm him, Emerys,” she calls into the crowd. “But you know he’s not ready for the crown. For the King, I make no such promise.”
She knows full well where Merlin is, can sense his magic in the din of a thousand people, but she wants the victory to be sweeter by seemingly giving him a choice. Merlin knows there isn’t one.
Merlin steps out from the throng of servants that have crushed themselves against the wall, into the vacant space in the centre of the room.
“Merlin,” Arthur chokes, “what in God’s name -”
“Arthur,” Merlin says, quiet and subdued, and - miracle of miracles - Arthur shuts up. Merlin’s ready to call it a win and go home, right there.
Nimueh stands behind the king, her eyes flashing blue fire. She still wears the same smile that she wore when she was beautiful, when her skin was unlined and unblemished, and it looks no less unsettling now.
“How much of you remembers what it was like to be a woman?” Merlin asks.
“That part of me died with the rest of my people,” says Nimueh. Her magic starts crackling at her fingertips, the icy blue of the hottest of Gaius’ flames.
“Let him go. He’s for another time and place.”
Nimueh nods. “Don’t think I won’t come back for you,” she whispers into Uther’s ear, but she can’t resist drawing her knife across his throat. It leaves a thin trail of blood, stark against pale skin.
She steps out from behind her human shield, into the centre of the room with Merlin. Uther claps a hand across his throat, his breath rattling angrily. He's not as young as he once was.
One of the more foolhardy knights rushes toward her, sword extended, and he’s thrown again the wall with a harsh word and a flick of Nimueh’s finger. Merlin winces at the crack of his head against the brick.
“You have no idea what I’ve learnt of the old magic,” Nimueh snarls, “as I’ve rebuilt myself from what you left smeared on the grass on the Isle, the last time we met.”
“The last time? Merlin, what is she -”
“It breaks my heart he doesn’t know all you’ve done for him,” Nimueh says. “Or it would, if I had much of a heart left.”
Merlin can see the stain Magic has left on Nimueh’s cracked and bleeding soul. The search for revenge has cost her dearly, and Merlin can see how it could happen to him, how it would be so easy to reach out and take.
Merlin searches out Morgana first, sees her behind a line of knights. Take care of him, Merlin thinks, and her eyes widen. She hesitates, furrows her brow.
Until you return, he hears, faintly but clearly, like the chime of a distant bell. He grins at her, wide and guileless, to let her know that the message has been received. She looks a bit startled at the success.
Then he turns to Arthur, and Merlin knows Arthur can see his eyes glowing gold.
“Don’t look for me,” Merlin says, and rips at the fabric of space. The hole gapes, black and yawning, but Merlin knows only he and Nimueh can see it.
“At a place of your choosing,” Merlin tells her. “But not here.”
Nimueh considers the offer. Her lips, still blood-red, curve into a smile and Merlin knows she can see the tactical advantage of familiar ground. She nods, and he follows her through.
-
“Merlin, you’re such a bleeding idiot, and I hate you so much.”
Merlin wants to answer, he really does. Wants to say be a good king, or sorry I couldn’t be there, or maybe even polish your own bloody armour for once.
Most of all, he wants to say I love you too, but his mouth is full of blood.
He coughs instead, breathes air into his rattling lungs, and hopes Arthur understands the gesture.
-
Merlin can’t do Magic for three months.
The absence hurts him, physically and mentally. His stomach revolts at food, his skin is sweaty and cold, and he shakes underneath every blanket Gaius owns. Gaius tells him the symptoms aren’t dissimilar from those suffering from drug addiction, but Merlin fades in and out for the first week and he doesn’t hear much of anything.
“Do you remember?” Arthurs asks him later, when he’s propped up with pillows, his arms struggling with the effort of lifting the spoon to his mouth. He won’t let Arthur feed him.
“No,” Merlin lies, because he doesn’t want to tell him about her screams.
“We found you at the gates of Camelot, you know,” Arthur continues. “We thought you were dead at first.”
Merlin doesn’t say anything. He watches his fingers pick at a thread on one of Arthur’s own sheets, and sees how pale and boney they are. How ordinary.
“Why did you come back?” Arthur says, finally. The threat of Uther looms ever-present in the background.
“I thought I was dying. Where else would I go?”
-
Merlin bursts in, unannounced, and the first Magic he ever does (again) is freeze Arthur’s bowl in midair when he startles. It’s hard to tell who is more surprised.
“Oh. Sorry. Perhaps I should have knocked. Sire,” Merlin adds, because he doesn’t know the where the new boundaries lie.
“Oh my God Merlin, you really are the worst sorcerer ever. It’s a wonder you kept it from me as long as you did.”
The bowl clatters to the ground, spilling fruit all over the floor, as Arthur grabs the back of Merlin’s neck.
When Arthur kisses him this time, the prince notices when his draperies catch alight.
“I’m going to have to work on that,” Merlin says.
Oh my God. I'm insanely nervous about this right now.
The thin chain of next moments.
[Arthur/Merlin, pg13, 1680wds]
There has only been one constant in Merlin's life and it's proven quite useful, really.
The first thing Merlin remembers is Magic.
His mother drops his favourite toy - a roughly hewn horse that Will’s father carved from the last of the winter firewood - and it freezes before it hits the ground.
He has to stretch to reach it, his chubby baby fingers grabbing it from thin air, and he doesn’t notice that his mother has gone pale, her hands clamped against her mouth.
She tries dropping it again the next day, and Merlin cries when it splinters on the floor.
-
It gets harder to control when Merlin hits adolescence, when he’s thirteen and doesn’t fit inside his skin.
Things crumble under his hands, his bed shakes when he dreams, and he gets used to his mother shaking him awake at night, just as the glow is fading from his skin.
For the first time, he can feel the heat behind his eyelids and the trembling in his palms.
He spends a lot of time by himself in the woods - certainly not doing what all the village elders think he is doing, the dirty-minded fools - and he truly scares himself for the first time when he tries to weave dead vines into a basket for his mother.
The vines come to life, brightening to a vibrant green, and start flowering right in front of Merlin’s eyes. The flowers are white with a golden centre, the colour of the daisies that grow on the other side of the river. But these are different, delicate, the petals longer and shapelier, and they wilt under the weight of the sun.
They’re dead within ten minutes, the vines along with them. The petals turn a soft grey, the buds brittle and black. Merlin touches one, and it falls to pieces under his hand, crumbling like it was made of ash.
Merlin brought something to life. He’s pretty sure that’s a line no one’s supposed to cross.
-
The day he meets Arthur, all his cupboards slam so hard the hinge on his wardrobe breaks.
No matter how hard he tries, he can’t repair it with magic, even with the words Gaius gave him, and he knows better than to fix it the usual way. Even in a new town, new job (he thinks Arthur’s such a prat and the books fly off the shelf) and new knowledge, he’s still the same Merlin who can’t be trusted with a sword lest he trip and impale himself on it.
After that, Gaius starts locking all his bottles of brews and potions in a heavy wooden chest, when Merlin discovers how brittle the glass really is.
-
The day Merlin shoots a firebolt is a good day.
-
The first time Arthur kisses Merlin, the lamps glow impossibly brighter.
Merlin doesn’t think Arthur notices, his eyes screwed shut as Merlin thrusts in and out. God, Arthur chokes, and Merlin can’t take his eyes off the way the light reflects off the sweat of Arthur’s collarbone.
-
Her dagger is pressed against Uther’s throat. A drop of blood drips down into his collar, as red as the flags of Camelot.
“Sorcerer,” she hisses. “Emerys.”
Her life has cost her. Nimueh holds the weapon to Uther with a gnarled and withered hand, and her hair wisps out from under the cowl of her silver hood, grey and insubstantial.
The banquet room has been decorated for a feast, tapestries high on the walls and shields hanging from the ceiling. All the noblemen and their wives, as well as the knights and servants, have pressed themselves as far away from the head of the table as they can, unable to escape through the locked doors. Nimueh has her back against the wall, Uther shielding the front of her, and she laughs at the swords that most of the knights have drawn. Most of the weapons are light, flexible rapiers, used for fashion rather than battle.
“Reveal yourself,” Nimueh says, and Uther grunts as she presses the knife harder.
The whole court turns their head when the doors open, squealing on their hinges. The magical lock only prevents people from getting out, apparently, as Arthur strides into the room unchallenged.
“Let him go,” Arthur says, danger wrapped around every syllable. His sword doesn’t waver in his hand.
Nimueh doesn’t bat an eyelash. She raises her head proudly, and the hood falls back from her face, the material bunching around her neck. She pays as much attention to Arthur as she would a fly.
“You know I will not harm him, Emerys,” she calls into the crowd. “But you know he’s not ready for the crown. For the King, I make no such promise.”
She knows full well where Merlin is, can sense his magic in the din of a thousand people, but she wants the victory to be sweeter by seemingly giving him a choice. Merlin knows there isn’t one.
Merlin steps out from the throng of servants that have crushed themselves against the wall, into the vacant space in the centre of the room.
“Merlin,” Arthur chokes, “what in God’s name -”
“Arthur,” Merlin says, quiet and subdued, and - miracle of miracles - Arthur shuts up. Merlin’s ready to call it a win and go home, right there.
Nimueh stands behind the king, her eyes flashing blue fire. She still wears the same smile that she wore when she was beautiful, when her skin was unlined and unblemished, and it looks no less unsettling now.
“How much of you remembers what it was like to be a woman?” Merlin asks.
“That part of me died with the rest of my people,” says Nimueh. Her magic starts crackling at her fingertips, the icy blue of the hottest of Gaius’ flames.
“Let him go. He’s for another time and place.”
Nimueh nods. “Don’t think I won’t come back for you,” she whispers into Uther’s ear, but she can’t resist drawing her knife across his throat. It leaves a thin trail of blood, stark against pale skin.
She steps out from behind her human shield, into the centre of the room with Merlin. Uther claps a hand across his throat, his breath rattling angrily. He's not as young as he once was.
One of the more foolhardy knights rushes toward her, sword extended, and he’s thrown again the wall with a harsh word and a flick of Nimueh’s finger. Merlin winces at the crack of his head against the brick.
“You have no idea what I’ve learnt of the old magic,” Nimueh snarls, “as I’ve rebuilt myself from what you left smeared on the grass on the Isle, the last time we met.”
“The last time? Merlin, what is she -”
“It breaks my heart he doesn’t know all you’ve done for him,” Nimueh says. “Or it would, if I had much of a heart left.”
Merlin can see the stain Magic has left on Nimueh’s cracked and bleeding soul. The search for revenge has cost her dearly, and Merlin can see how it could happen to him, how it would be so easy to reach out and take.
Merlin searches out Morgana first, sees her behind a line of knights. Take care of him, Merlin thinks, and her eyes widen. She hesitates, furrows her brow.
Until you return, he hears, faintly but clearly, like the chime of a distant bell. He grins at her, wide and guileless, to let her know that the message has been received. She looks a bit startled at the success.
Then he turns to Arthur, and Merlin knows Arthur can see his eyes glowing gold.
“Don’t look for me,” Merlin says, and rips at the fabric of space. The hole gapes, black and yawning, but Merlin knows only he and Nimueh can see it.
“At a place of your choosing,” Merlin tells her. “But not here.”
Nimueh considers the offer. Her lips, still blood-red, curve into a smile and Merlin knows she can see the tactical advantage of familiar ground. She nods, and he follows her through.
-
“Merlin, you’re such a bleeding idiot, and I hate you so much.”
Merlin wants to answer, he really does. Wants to say be a good king, or sorry I couldn’t be there, or maybe even polish your own bloody armour for once.
Most of all, he wants to say I love you too, but his mouth is full of blood.
He coughs instead, breathes air into his rattling lungs, and hopes Arthur understands the gesture.
-
Merlin can’t do Magic for three months.
The absence hurts him, physically and mentally. His stomach revolts at food, his skin is sweaty and cold, and he shakes underneath every blanket Gaius owns. Gaius tells him the symptoms aren’t dissimilar from those suffering from drug addiction, but Merlin fades in and out for the first week and he doesn’t hear much of anything.
“Do you remember?” Arthurs asks him later, when he’s propped up with pillows, his arms struggling with the effort of lifting the spoon to his mouth. He won’t let Arthur feed him.
“No,” Merlin lies, because he doesn’t want to tell him about her screams.
“We found you at the gates of Camelot, you know,” Arthur continues. “We thought you were dead at first.”
Merlin doesn’t say anything. He watches his fingers pick at a thread on one of Arthur’s own sheets, and sees how pale and boney they are. How ordinary.
“Why did you come back?” Arthur says, finally. The threat of Uther looms ever-present in the background.
“I thought I was dying. Where else would I go?”
-
Merlin bursts in, unannounced, and the first Magic he ever does (again) is freeze Arthur’s bowl in midair when he startles. It’s hard to tell who is more surprised.
“Oh. Sorry. Perhaps I should have knocked. Sire,” Merlin adds, because he doesn’t know the where the new boundaries lie.
“Oh my God Merlin, you really are the worst sorcerer ever. It’s a wonder you kept it from me as long as you did.”
The bowl clatters to the ground, spilling fruit all over the floor, as Arthur grabs the back of Merlin’s neck.
When Arthur kisses him this time, the prince notices when his draperies catch alight.
“I’m going to have to work on that,” Merlin says.