Absolution
Absolution
Arthur/Merlin, reincarnation, G, 267 words
A/N: Did an image prompt 30min timewrite with coley_merrin. She gave me this. COLIIIIN T___T
Merlin’s heart thumps at double the speed, and then skips a beat, and two, and three.
He almost doesn’t dare hope.
His footsteps are muted along the concrete and the refuse strewn along the curb and he falls back into the rotting shadows, keenly aware of how presentable he isn’t. His thinned, brown jacket is years old - older than some of the acquaintances he’s made over the years, so long and so alone - and his hair hasn’t been groomed in weeks. He shaved this morning, out of courtesy for his agent, but by dusk, he could feel the prickles of hair grown back on his chin.
A whisper escapes his mouth before he can breathe it back in. “Arthur.”
And such a mistress is fate, that the blond head turns hearing his name - maybe not his name, maybe the name he knows, the name he remembers, imprinted to the marrow of his bones - and sees Merlin’s dark and unkempt figure, confused and curious.
Arthur, always and undeniably so, strikes a strong image. He’s dressed to the nines, his suit and shoes bespoke, and mobile clutched at the ready. Merlin gave up on keeping a clean appearance ages ago, but he can see Arthur would never let it go, in any lifetime.
Guilt washes over him, because Arthur’s eyes remember - they’ve seen, and they remember.
But that is no matter because Arthur’s small smile - smirk, really - it forgives.
And Merlin stepping forward returns it in kind, holds his fist to his heart, and inclines his head.
“Sire.”
Arthur/Merlin, reincarnation, G, 267 words
A/N: Did an image prompt 30min timewrite with coley_merrin. She gave me this. COLIIIIN T___T
Merlin’s heart thumps at double the speed, and then skips a beat, and two, and three.
He almost doesn’t dare hope.
His footsteps are muted along the concrete and the refuse strewn along the curb and he falls back into the rotting shadows, keenly aware of how presentable he isn’t. His thinned, brown jacket is years old - older than some of the acquaintances he’s made over the years, so long and so alone - and his hair hasn’t been groomed in weeks. He shaved this morning, out of courtesy for his agent, but by dusk, he could feel the prickles of hair grown back on his chin.
A whisper escapes his mouth before he can breathe it back in. “Arthur.”
And such a mistress is fate, that the blond head turns hearing his name - maybe not his name, maybe the name he knows, the name he remembers, imprinted to the marrow of his bones - and sees Merlin’s dark and unkempt figure, confused and curious.
Arthur, always and undeniably so, strikes a strong image. He’s dressed to the nines, his suit and shoes bespoke, and mobile clutched at the ready. Merlin gave up on keeping a clean appearance ages ago, but he can see Arthur would never let it go, in any lifetime.
Guilt washes over him, because Arthur’s eyes remember - they’ve seen, and they remember.
But that is no matter because Arthur’s small smile - smirk, really - it forgives.
And Merlin stepping forward returns it in kind, holds his fist to his heart, and inclines his head.
“Sire.”