Fic: Strange Beasts, Part 1: Purple
Title: Strange Beasts
Author: alby_mangroves
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: M
Summary: "Arthur's eyes soak up purple from the heather, and inside Merlin's chest, little seeds unfurl. He tries to stamp them down but they won't be squashed." Not even magic can stop fate from collecting its toll. Angst, Romance.
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Merlin is not mine.
Word Count: This chapter: 700.
Overripe summer pervades Merlin's senses, and he scratches his fingers into the soil on which he lies, the way he used to when he was a boy. He would run to the wheat fields as fast as his gangly legs could carry him, then hide from his chores among the rustling flaxen sea and tune out his thoughts, concentrating instead on all the smells and sounds of the world.
With his eyes closed, Merlin would pretend he was but a wispy breeze, stirring the golden fields as he flew past, so carefree. It's much harder to dispel the noise of duty and destiny and real life these days, now that he's an adult with the weight of expectations on his shoulders. So much has changed since he arrived at Camelot; moments of peace are hard to find, and almost impossible to steal.
He might not be among the wheat of his childhood home today, but the moorlands near the castle have received his intrusion just as well. In the heather he lies, arms and legs outstretched and fingers sunk into the ground, as though tethering himself to the world where he sometimes feels like such an outsider.
Merlin lets the sway of the moor take him until all that remains is the solid earth beneath and the endless sky above. Shadows of clouds drift over him in a welcome respite from the heat of the midday sun.
Birdsong of little whitethroats sounds like home, and purple heather brushes against his skin, coarse and real, beauty with a dark undertone. Lulled by the rhythm of the land, Merlin dozes peacefully for the first time since he began his assignment as the prat prince's servant. Here on the moor, he is just Merlin, rather than Arthur's peon.
Time passes as imperceptibly as the sun's course across the sky, and he doesn't remember closing his eyes, but when his eyelids flutter open to the waning afternoon, Merlin thinks himself to be dreaming.
The shade he feels settling over him is not from a cloud, but a man. Merlin blinks, confused, and the man lowers himself until he's almost too close for comfort. Merlin raises a hand to his squinting eyes, trying to shield them against the orange sun which burns like a coronet about the man's head and it's not until he hovers just inches away that Merlin recognizes the prince.
Cold fingers of dread crawl up his back, inch by inch, until his entire body tingles with embarrassment at being caught wasting the day away instead of all that pointless buffing and sharpening and goddamned stable-mucking. But no matter what he expects to read on Arthur's face, it is not the mirth in a quirked lip and raised brow.
Arthur's bright eyes soak up purple from the heather, and inside Merlin's chest, little seeds unfurl. He tries so hard to stamp them down, to blacken them to coal with the force of denial, but they won't be squashed.
"I've been looking for you everywhere," Arthur says, stooping over Merlin with an arm braced across his knee, white teeth gleaming in a wide smile.
Merlin opens his mouth to voice the I'm sorry, and just a break, and coming right back, but his words wither before they're born as Arthur claps a cool hand over his sun-warmed shoulder and sags to the ground beside him, sighing.
Turning his face up to the sun, Arthur lies in silence, his shoulder touching Merlin's like it's the most natural thing in the world to laze in the heather with one's manservant.
With every breath he takes, Merlin feels where their shoulders rub slightly against each other. He would move if he could, but Arthur's not moving, and if Arthur's not moving, then Merlin can't move, for fear of slighting his master.
He grits his teeth against whatever it is that's radiating from that bony nub of his shoulder and burning him up inside. He's intent on riding it out, for it must end sometime, mustn't it?
And so they lie in the rustling purple field, one dozing, and the other more awake than he's ever been in his life.
~ Next
Author: alby_mangroves
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: M
Summary: "Arthur's eyes soak up purple from the heather, and inside Merlin's chest, little seeds unfurl. He tries to stamp them down but they won't be squashed." Not even magic can stop fate from collecting its toll. Angst, Romance.
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Merlin is not mine.
Word Count: This chapter: 700.
Overripe summer pervades Merlin's senses, and he scratches his fingers into the soil on which he lies, the way he used to when he was a boy. He would run to the wheat fields as fast as his gangly legs could carry him, then hide from his chores among the rustling flaxen sea and tune out his thoughts, concentrating instead on all the smells and sounds of the world.
With his eyes closed, Merlin would pretend he was but a wispy breeze, stirring the golden fields as he flew past, so carefree. It's much harder to dispel the noise of duty and destiny and real life these days, now that he's an adult with the weight of expectations on his shoulders. So much has changed since he arrived at Camelot; moments of peace are hard to find, and almost impossible to steal.
He might not be among the wheat of his childhood home today, but the moorlands near the castle have received his intrusion just as well. In the heather he lies, arms and legs outstretched and fingers sunk into the ground, as though tethering himself to the world where he sometimes feels like such an outsider.
Merlin lets the sway of the moor take him until all that remains is the solid earth beneath and the endless sky above. Shadows of clouds drift over him in a welcome respite from the heat of the midday sun.
Birdsong of little whitethroats sounds like home, and purple heather brushes against his skin, coarse and real, beauty with a dark undertone. Lulled by the rhythm of the land, Merlin dozes peacefully for the first time since he began his assignment as the prat prince's servant. Here on the moor, he is just Merlin, rather than Arthur's peon.
Time passes as imperceptibly as the sun's course across the sky, and he doesn't remember closing his eyes, but when his eyelids flutter open to the waning afternoon, Merlin thinks himself to be dreaming.
The shade he feels settling over him is not from a cloud, but a man. Merlin blinks, confused, and the man lowers himself until he's almost too close for comfort. Merlin raises a hand to his squinting eyes, trying to shield them against the orange sun which burns like a coronet about the man's head and it's not until he hovers just inches away that Merlin recognizes the prince.
Cold fingers of dread crawl up his back, inch by inch, until his entire body tingles with embarrassment at being caught wasting the day away instead of all that pointless buffing and sharpening and goddamned stable-mucking. But no matter what he expects to read on Arthur's face, it is not the mirth in a quirked lip and raised brow.
Arthur's bright eyes soak up purple from the heather, and inside Merlin's chest, little seeds unfurl. He tries so hard to stamp them down, to blacken them to coal with the force of denial, but they won't be squashed.
"I've been looking for you everywhere," Arthur says, stooping over Merlin with an arm braced across his knee, white teeth gleaming in a wide smile.
Merlin opens his mouth to voice the I'm sorry, and just a break, and coming right back, but his words wither before they're born as Arthur claps a cool hand over his sun-warmed shoulder and sags to the ground beside him, sighing.
Turning his face up to the sun, Arthur lies in silence, his shoulder touching Merlin's like it's the most natural thing in the world to laze in the heather with one's manservant.
With every breath he takes, Merlin feels where their shoulders rub slightly against each other. He would move if he could, but Arthur's not moving, and if Arthur's not moving, then Merlin can't move, for fear of slighting his master.
He grits his teeth against whatever it is that's radiating from that bony nub of his shoulder and burning him up inside. He's intent on riding it out, for it must end sometime, mustn't it?
And so they lie in the rustling purple field, one dozing, and the other more awake than he's ever been in his life.
~ Next