Their Time
Title: Their Time
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Warning: Mentioned character death, dark themes implied
Summary: About a year after Uther's untimely demise, Merlin comes to his King's chambers to point out the difference between paperwork and sleep.
Note 1: This was supposed to be semi-fluffy, but Merlin kept insisting on being slighty creepy.
Note 2: I learned English in school on the internet, and my beta I didn't want to bother with this, so there'll probably be some mistakes.
As he walked down the hall towards the King’s chambers, Merlin considered putting up a magical wall to block out every servant, knight or potential messenger still awake and to come the same way. The idea was discarded for the sake of the messengers - there was a small but existent chance that one of them might come running to the King in breathless hurry, to announce that one of the outer villages was attacked, or a neighbouring kingdom had declared war on them and was about to break through the city walls with its army. The King would want to know that, though Merlin was tempted to put up his wall anyway and let them deal with any potential war on their own until morning. There were enough knights around after all. They knew all they needed to know about hitting other knights with swords, even without someone telling them what to do.
Arthur had noted repeatedly that Merlin didn’t know the first thing about battle.
Only few lights were burning in the long corridor that led to the warlock’s destination. The shadows before the wooden door were thick enough for him to make out the weak glimmer of a candle beneath it. Just as he had expected.
Upon opening the door, Merlin discovered that he had been wrong: It wasn’t one candle, but two, placed beside the head of the bed and providing just enough illumination to read the writing on the papers strewn all across the covers.
“Doing your paperwork in bed does not count as sleeping,” he said disapprovingly as the door closed behind him without any conscious thought on his part.
Arthur didn’t look up from the report, or contract, or whatever it was he was reading. “And criticising your sovereign’s habits doesn’t count as knocking. As I believe I have brought to your attention before. Often.”
“This is not your servant speaking, but your lover.” Merlin sat down on the edge of the bed that was even larger and more comfortable than the one Arthur had slept in before. “Or, if you prefer, your concerned friend. Who is also concerned about the kingdom he believes you are unable to properly lead once you have dropped dead from exhaustion.”
Reminding Arthur of his duty to his people was usually the way to go. This time, however, he didn’t even appear to have heard Merlin’s words. “Any success yet?” he asked.
Merlin sighed. “No. I searched the entire kingdom, but I couldn’t find her.”
Arthur put down the scroll he was studying to rub his eyes in a gesture that betrayed his fatigue. “Of course not. I didn’t think you would.”
It was just like Arthur Pendragon to let Merlin do tasks he didn’t think had any hope for success to begin with. Merlin understood, though. Arthur couldn’t not try. They both couldn’t.
“She’s magic and shouldn’t be that hard to locate,” he therefore said. “I can try a more thorough search. It would take longer, but I’d be more likely to find her trace.”
“No.” Arthur’s quick decision revealed that he had already given this matter some thought. “If you didn’t find her by now, she doesn’t want to be found. We have to accept that.” The scroll was up again and hiding his face when he added, “After all she had good reason to leave.”
“But no reason at all not to come back.” Merlin reached for the scroll, to pry it away from Arthur’s fingers. “She can’t blame you for your father’s actions.” But Arthur only snorted.
“You don’t know Morgana.” He took the next sheet of paper from the pile, and held on to it when Merlin tried to take it as well. “Stop that! I have work to do.”
“You have to sleep for once. Are you even still able to understand what is written in those documents?”
“If you want me to sleep, stop keeping me from finishing my work.” Arthur sounded decidedly irritated now. Just like Merlin was beginning to feel.
“Once you finished that, you’ll remember something else you’d like to do before tomorrow. I know how it goes, you prat. Do you think I came all the way at this time of night just to watch you work?”
“So you’re telling me you came all this way just to put me to sleep?”
Merlin was quiet for a second.
“You didn’t ask me to stay over.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “Because I’m busy. For heaven’s sake, Merlin. Don’t tell me you actually feel insulted because of that.”
“I knew you weren’t going to sleep because you didn’t ask me to stay,” Merlin explained patiently. “And I’m not feeling insulted, I’m annoyed. When I lay in bed tonight, I spend a lot of time warming it with thoughts of you falling asleep during the council meeting tomorrow, which had the charm of both you being embarrassed and your councillors seeing how boring they are. But then I decided that it would cast a bad light on the kingdom and came to spare you this scenario.”
“You’re too considerate.” Arthur’s voice was dripping sarcasm. When Merlin used the opportunity of him dropping his guard to snag the pile of unfinished work and shove it under the bed, he added, “And entirely too persistent.”
Merlin just looked at him in silence: a tired young man with hollow cheeks and shadows around his eyes; the young King of a kingdom surrounded by untrustworthy allies just waiting for the first mistake of an inexperienced ruler - and absolutely determined to be the King his people deserved. The previous months had been trying for all of Camelot, and Arthur was working harder than anyone to protect his people in this time of change.
Already Merlin could see the great kingdom Camleot would be once the first time of chaos was over and the harm done during the final months of Uther’s rule repaired. He was proud to support Arthur every step of the way as he grew into the role of the great King he didn’t know everyone expected him to be, and needed no dragon and no prophecy to know that his place was at Arthur’s side, always.
One of the things he did for his King was taking care of him when Arthur forgot to take care of himself. Once, when Arthur’s stubborn obsession with working through the nights first emerged, Merlin had made the mistake of casting a sleeping spell on him. It was something he would never do again, as Arthur had expressed a certain opposition to his lover making decisions for him and directing his actions by magic without his consent, even if it was for his own good. In fact, Merlin had never seen him so angry, not at him.
Since then he had relied on mere words if he wanted to convince Arthur of something. This time it worked: Merlin could see the exact moment his friend and lover gave in and accepted defeat. Arthur finished the paper he was reading, but didn’t try to get hold of the next one.
Though no longer his servant, Merlin helped him undress - which mostly meant he pulled off his boots (Seriously, how kingly was it to wear one’s boots in bed?) while Arthur remained propped up against the head of the bed, apparently deciding that he was too exhausted to move and help.
After Merlin had managed to coax him out of his shirt, Arthur slipped under the covers and rolled onto his side. He never slept on his back anymore. A second later, the robe Merlin had thrown on for the way joined his discarded clothes on the floor. That he had been appointed court sorcerer hadn’t improved his sense of order in any way. It only meant that now he had his own servant to clean up after him - which, after the incident with the stray transmutation spell, he only did when Merlin was nowhere in sight.
Magic blew out the candles as Merlin got into bed behind Arthur. As always, he pressed his palms to the King’s bare back, feeling the scar tissue under his fingers as he send a warm rush of magic into damaged muscles and aching bones. The breath Arthur let out - slowly, steadily - was almost a sigh, betraying the pain he had learned to hide. Merlin sighed as well, but said nothing. It was always worst at night, when Arthur was lying still and there was nothing to distract him, but Merlin’s magic helped like nothing else did. When he was away, Gwen had told him, Arthur never even attempted to sleep anymore.
His lips pressed into a thin line, Merlin thought of Uther and the old pain in his shoulder that would keep him awake every other night. It seemed like a bad joke that his son would inherit not only his crown and his power, but also an injury that robbed him of sleep.
‘That wasn’t my father anymore,’ Arthur had told him once, just after Merlin had returned to him (in an earnest, wistful voice that confirmed what Merlin already knew: he could never learn the truth). ‘My father might have been blind when it came to magic, but he always acted in the best interest of his people. He wouldn’t have gone this far, had he still been himself.’ Merlin had thought then that maybe Arthur was remembering the late King as a better man than he had been, but accepted that he had a right to, for he had loved his father, and despite everything, Merlin knew that Uther had loved his son. It was this knowledge that had made him believe Uther’s love would protect Arthur from the King’s madness, as illness slowly took his life and his weakening mind saw evil magic and treachery in every shadow. Merlin had relied on that love even after Morgana had to leave, without warning and without saying goodbye.
He had relied on it even when Arthur had stood between him and the King’s guards, his sword drawn in a gesture that was symbolic more than anything else against so many opponents, had believed in it enough to follow Arthur’s order, just this once, and run.
It wouldn’t be for long, he’d thought. Already it was obvious that Uther wouldn’t live for much longer, and once he was gone, Merlin would return to Camelot, and to Arthur, where he belonged.
‘I believe it was Morgana who sent me the dream that made me come back here. She’s still with you, wherever she may be.’ Merlin wanted to tell Arthur this simple truth and couldn’t, for Arthur couldn’t know that he hadn’t returned after word of the King’s death had spread, as everyone believed, but before. On the night Uther died.
It wasn’t guilt that made Merlin keep his secret. Uther would have died anyway, within weeks, maybe even days. There simply had been no guarantee that he would die soon enough. (While no spell had taken his sanity it was magic that took his life. That day, Merlin had wondered if he passed with the satisfaction of a man whose deepest belief had proven right in the end.)
It hadn’t been a good time, politically, for the old King to die. The neighbouring kingdoms had been waiting for it, ready to take advantage of the unrest that inevitably came with change, and after weeks in the dungeons Arthur had been so weak and ill that he could hardly stand during his own coronation. Nearly a month passed before he was able to take care of his country, and it hadn’t been for lack of trying. Looking back, Camelot had been very close to falling to chaos and invasion those days.
Merlin, it turned out, didn’t know anything about politics either. (If he had, it wouldn’t have changed anything.)
Gaius had taken care of Arthur, and once the young King had recovered, the court physician had followed the old King to his grave. It happened so sudden, so without warning that it had appeared almost planned to Merlin, and to this day he found himself unable to truly grieve.
He missed him, though, and cursed him for leaving Arthur without a single experienced advisor he could really trust.
Everything had changed. It was their time now.
In the silence that filled the dark room, Merlin heard Arthur’s breath become slow and even. Sleep, once invited, came quickly when Merlin was with him.
Merlin’s fingers, still resting on Arthur’s back, ghosted over his spine, over the welts of scars and memories. He had offered to erase the marks with his magic, but time and time Arthur had refused. He couldn’t pretend it never happened, he’d said, but Merlin failed to see the sense of a reminder in a place Arthur himself couldn’t even see. And visible or not, the scars would always remain. But when Merlin had pointed that out, Arthur had only shrugged and changed he topic.
He knew his friend so well, and yet sometimes Merlin didn’t understand him at all. Sometimes he wished he could get into his head and read his mind, the way Mordred had read Merlin’s. It reminded him that there was another threat he had to take care of, somewhere, growing up and becoming stronger.
With Uther, the warlock had hesitated until it was almost too late. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
In was another thing Arthur needn’t know - Arthur, who right now turned so he was facing Merlin, and snuggled against him. If Merlin hadn’t known he was asleep before, he would know now; Arthur always pressed against him in his sleep, though he would deny it when Merlin mentioned it to him. He was King, after all. A King didn’t do something undignified like snuggle his court sorcerer. Just like crown princes didn’t snuggle their manservants.
(They didn’t, actually. That one time in the cave didn’t count, as it had been more a mutual effort not to freeze than a show of affection.)
In the darkness, Merlin smiled, and pressed a quick kiss to the top of Arthur’s nose before he sank into the pillow and let past and present fall away in his lover’s arms. Surrounded by Arthur’s warmth, he dreamt of the future.
This was their time. And Merlin was determined to make it a good one. In a hundred years, King Uther’s rule would be forgotten, but King Arthur would be remembered even in a thousand years from now.
Merlin would make sure of it.
April 2, 2009
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Warning: Mentioned character death, dark themes implied
Summary: About a year after Uther's untimely demise, Merlin comes to his King's chambers to point out the difference between paperwork and sleep.
Note 1: This was supposed to be semi-fluffy, but Merlin kept insisting on being slighty creepy.
Note 2: I learned English in school on the internet, and my beta I didn't want to bother with this, so there'll probably be some mistakes.
As he walked down the hall towards the King’s chambers, Merlin considered putting up a magical wall to block out every servant, knight or potential messenger still awake and to come the same way. The idea was discarded for the sake of the messengers - there was a small but existent chance that one of them might come running to the King in breathless hurry, to announce that one of the outer villages was attacked, or a neighbouring kingdom had declared war on them and was about to break through the city walls with its army. The King would want to know that, though Merlin was tempted to put up his wall anyway and let them deal with any potential war on their own until morning. There were enough knights around after all. They knew all they needed to know about hitting other knights with swords, even without someone telling them what to do.
Arthur had noted repeatedly that Merlin didn’t know the first thing about battle.
Only few lights were burning in the long corridor that led to the warlock’s destination. The shadows before the wooden door were thick enough for him to make out the weak glimmer of a candle beneath it. Just as he had expected.
Upon opening the door, Merlin discovered that he had been wrong: It wasn’t one candle, but two, placed beside the head of the bed and providing just enough illumination to read the writing on the papers strewn all across the covers.
“Doing your paperwork in bed does not count as sleeping,” he said disapprovingly as the door closed behind him without any conscious thought on his part.
Arthur didn’t look up from the report, or contract, or whatever it was he was reading. “And criticising your sovereign’s habits doesn’t count as knocking. As I believe I have brought to your attention before. Often.”
“This is not your servant speaking, but your lover.” Merlin sat down on the edge of the bed that was even larger and more comfortable than the one Arthur had slept in before. “Or, if you prefer, your concerned friend. Who is also concerned about the kingdom he believes you are unable to properly lead once you have dropped dead from exhaustion.”
Reminding Arthur of his duty to his people was usually the way to go. This time, however, he didn’t even appear to have heard Merlin’s words. “Any success yet?” he asked.
Merlin sighed. “No. I searched the entire kingdom, but I couldn’t find her.”
Arthur put down the scroll he was studying to rub his eyes in a gesture that betrayed his fatigue. “Of course not. I didn’t think you would.”
It was just like Arthur Pendragon to let Merlin do tasks he didn’t think had any hope for success to begin with. Merlin understood, though. Arthur couldn’t not try. They both couldn’t.
“She’s magic and shouldn’t be that hard to locate,” he therefore said. “I can try a more thorough search. It would take longer, but I’d be more likely to find her trace.”
“No.” Arthur’s quick decision revealed that he had already given this matter some thought. “If you didn’t find her by now, she doesn’t want to be found. We have to accept that.” The scroll was up again and hiding his face when he added, “After all she had good reason to leave.”
“But no reason at all not to come back.” Merlin reached for the scroll, to pry it away from Arthur’s fingers. “She can’t blame you for your father’s actions.” But Arthur only snorted.
“You don’t know Morgana.” He took the next sheet of paper from the pile, and held on to it when Merlin tried to take it as well. “Stop that! I have work to do.”
“You have to sleep for once. Are you even still able to understand what is written in those documents?”
“If you want me to sleep, stop keeping me from finishing my work.” Arthur sounded decidedly irritated now. Just like Merlin was beginning to feel.
“Once you finished that, you’ll remember something else you’d like to do before tomorrow. I know how it goes, you prat. Do you think I came all the way at this time of night just to watch you work?”
“So you’re telling me you came all this way just to put me to sleep?”
Merlin was quiet for a second.
“You didn’t ask me to stay over.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “Because I’m busy. For heaven’s sake, Merlin. Don’t tell me you actually feel insulted because of that.”
“I knew you weren’t going to sleep because you didn’t ask me to stay,” Merlin explained patiently. “And I’m not feeling insulted, I’m annoyed. When I lay in bed tonight, I spend a lot of time warming it with thoughts of you falling asleep during the council meeting tomorrow, which had the charm of both you being embarrassed and your councillors seeing how boring they are. But then I decided that it would cast a bad light on the kingdom and came to spare you this scenario.”
“You’re too considerate.” Arthur’s voice was dripping sarcasm. When Merlin used the opportunity of him dropping his guard to snag the pile of unfinished work and shove it under the bed, he added, “And entirely too persistent.”
Merlin just looked at him in silence: a tired young man with hollow cheeks and shadows around his eyes; the young King of a kingdom surrounded by untrustworthy allies just waiting for the first mistake of an inexperienced ruler - and absolutely determined to be the King his people deserved. The previous months had been trying for all of Camelot, and Arthur was working harder than anyone to protect his people in this time of change.
Already Merlin could see the great kingdom Camleot would be once the first time of chaos was over and the harm done during the final months of Uther’s rule repaired. He was proud to support Arthur every step of the way as he grew into the role of the great King he didn’t know everyone expected him to be, and needed no dragon and no prophecy to know that his place was at Arthur’s side, always.
One of the things he did for his King was taking care of him when Arthur forgot to take care of himself. Once, when Arthur’s stubborn obsession with working through the nights first emerged, Merlin had made the mistake of casting a sleeping spell on him. It was something he would never do again, as Arthur had expressed a certain opposition to his lover making decisions for him and directing his actions by magic without his consent, even if it was for his own good. In fact, Merlin had never seen him so angry, not at him.
Since then he had relied on mere words if he wanted to convince Arthur of something. This time it worked: Merlin could see the exact moment his friend and lover gave in and accepted defeat. Arthur finished the paper he was reading, but didn’t try to get hold of the next one.
Though no longer his servant, Merlin helped him undress - which mostly meant he pulled off his boots (Seriously, how kingly was it to wear one’s boots in bed?) while Arthur remained propped up against the head of the bed, apparently deciding that he was too exhausted to move and help.
After Merlin had managed to coax him out of his shirt, Arthur slipped under the covers and rolled onto his side. He never slept on his back anymore. A second later, the robe Merlin had thrown on for the way joined his discarded clothes on the floor. That he had been appointed court sorcerer hadn’t improved his sense of order in any way. It only meant that now he had his own servant to clean up after him - which, after the incident with the stray transmutation spell, he only did when Merlin was nowhere in sight.
Magic blew out the candles as Merlin got into bed behind Arthur. As always, he pressed his palms to the King’s bare back, feeling the scar tissue under his fingers as he send a warm rush of magic into damaged muscles and aching bones. The breath Arthur let out - slowly, steadily - was almost a sigh, betraying the pain he had learned to hide. Merlin sighed as well, but said nothing. It was always worst at night, when Arthur was lying still and there was nothing to distract him, but Merlin’s magic helped like nothing else did. When he was away, Gwen had told him, Arthur never even attempted to sleep anymore.
His lips pressed into a thin line, Merlin thought of Uther and the old pain in his shoulder that would keep him awake every other night. It seemed like a bad joke that his son would inherit not only his crown and his power, but also an injury that robbed him of sleep.
‘That wasn’t my father anymore,’ Arthur had told him once, just after Merlin had returned to him (in an earnest, wistful voice that confirmed what Merlin already knew: he could never learn the truth). ‘My father might have been blind when it came to magic, but he always acted in the best interest of his people. He wouldn’t have gone this far, had he still been himself.’ Merlin had thought then that maybe Arthur was remembering the late King as a better man than he had been, but accepted that he had a right to, for he had loved his father, and despite everything, Merlin knew that Uther had loved his son. It was this knowledge that had made him believe Uther’s love would protect Arthur from the King’s madness, as illness slowly took his life and his weakening mind saw evil magic and treachery in every shadow. Merlin had relied on that love even after Morgana had to leave, without warning and without saying goodbye.
He had relied on it even when Arthur had stood between him and the King’s guards, his sword drawn in a gesture that was symbolic more than anything else against so many opponents, had believed in it enough to follow Arthur’s order, just this once, and run.
It wouldn’t be for long, he’d thought. Already it was obvious that Uther wouldn’t live for much longer, and once he was gone, Merlin would return to Camelot, and to Arthur, where he belonged.
‘I believe it was Morgana who sent me the dream that made me come back here. She’s still with you, wherever she may be.’ Merlin wanted to tell Arthur this simple truth and couldn’t, for Arthur couldn’t know that he hadn’t returned after word of the King’s death had spread, as everyone believed, but before. On the night Uther died.
It wasn’t guilt that made Merlin keep his secret. Uther would have died anyway, within weeks, maybe even days. There simply had been no guarantee that he would die soon enough. (While no spell had taken his sanity it was magic that took his life. That day, Merlin had wondered if he passed with the satisfaction of a man whose deepest belief had proven right in the end.)
It hadn’t been a good time, politically, for the old King to die. The neighbouring kingdoms had been waiting for it, ready to take advantage of the unrest that inevitably came with change, and after weeks in the dungeons Arthur had been so weak and ill that he could hardly stand during his own coronation. Nearly a month passed before he was able to take care of his country, and it hadn’t been for lack of trying. Looking back, Camelot had been very close to falling to chaos and invasion those days.
Merlin, it turned out, didn’t know anything about politics either. (If he had, it wouldn’t have changed anything.)
Gaius had taken care of Arthur, and once the young King had recovered, the court physician had followed the old King to his grave. It happened so sudden, so without warning that it had appeared almost planned to Merlin, and to this day he found himself unable to truly grieve.
He missed him, though, and cursed him for leaving Arthur without a single experienced advisor he could really trust.
Everything had changed. It was their time now.
In the silence that filled the dark room, Merlin heard Arthur’s breath become slow and even. Sleep, once invited, came quickly when Merlin was with him.
Merlin’s fingers, still resting on Arthur’s back, ghosted over his spine, over the welts of scars and memories. He had offered to erase the marks with his magic, but time and time Arthur had refused. He couldn’t pretend it never happened, he’d said, but Merlin failed to see the sense of a reminder in a place Arthur himself couldn’t even see. And visible or not, the scars would always remain. But when Merlin had pointed that out, Arthur had only shrugged and changed he topic.
He knew his friend so well, and yet sometimes Merlin didn’t understand him at all. Sometimes he wished he could get into his head and read his mind, the way Mordred had read Merlin’s. It reminded him that there was another threat he had to take care of, somewhere, growing up and becoming stronger.
With Uther, the warlock had hesitated until it was almost too late. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
In was another thing Arthur needn’t know - Arthur, who right now turned so he was facing Merlin, and snuggled against him. If Merlin hadn’t known he was asleep before, he would know now; Arthur always pressed against him in his sleep, though he would deny it when Merlin mentioned it to him. He was King, after all. A King didn’t do something undignified like snuggle his court sorcerer. Just like crown princes didn’t snuggle their manservants.
(They didn’t, actually. That one time in the cave didn’t count, as it had been more a mutual effort not to freeze than a show of affection.)
In the darkness, Merlin smiled, and pressed a quick kiss to the top of Arthur’s nose before he sank into the pillow and let past and present fall away in his lover’s arms. Surrounded by Arthur’s warmth, he dreamt of the future.
This was their time. And Merlin was determined to make it a good one. In a hundred years, King Uther’s rule would be forgotten, but King Arthur would be remembered even in a thousand years from now.
Merlin would make sure of it.
April 2, 2009