Fic: Purpose [Merlin | PG, Merlin/Arthur]
Title: Purpose
Author: angelqueen04
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Merlin/Arthur, Morgana
Warnings: Angst
Word Count: ~1,600 words
Disclaimer: Merlin is property of the BBC. I make no claims on it and write this purely for my own enjoyment.
Beta: N/a
Summary: Merlin sits beneath the tree long after the boat carrying Arthur vanishes.
Author’s Notes: Written for the merlinxarthur Fanfic Challenge. This didn’t turn out how I initially had thought it would, but still, I think I actually like it!
Merlin sits beneath the tree long after the boat carrying Arthur vanishes. He stares and stares, barely taking time to blink. The knights that remain in the wake of the disaster at Camlann attempt to speak to him - Bedwyr, Lionel, even Leon, whose age surpasses even Merlin’s own - but his answers are uninformative.
It is Leon who finally breaks through to him. “Merlin, we must return to Camelot. They must know, Lord Constantine…” he pauses briefly and adds, “Lancelot and her Majesty.”
Merlin does not respond at first. He knows that Leon is correct, if Arthur’s work at Camelot is to be preserved, steps must be taken to ensure that preservation. However, he feels grounded here, senses that if he moves from here, he might very well float away. Arthur has always been his anchor, and this spot, where Merlin last saw him, is sacred.
Finally, he nods to Leon. “Go,” he says simply.
Leon, exhaustion clear on his face, still exhibits his surprise. “Are you not coming home too?” he asks.
Merlin shakes his head. “No. I will stay for a time, and then move on. My work is done, for now.”
The knight stares at him for a moment, and then nods slowly. “Would you have me take any word back for you?” he inquires. “Any message for her M - Lady Guinevere?”
Merlin sighs inwardly. Even now, Leon has trouble leaving off Gwen’s title. In the aftermath of the crisis, though Arthur had refused to listen to demands that she be burned for being an unfaithful queen, no one would stand for her retaining the title of queen. Arthur’s wife, she always would be, but her time as his queen was at an end. It had been a contested decision, especially among the knights, and it still caused some confusion and discontent. Leon had stood against such a measure being put down on Gwen, but had spoken no more of it once Arthur had made the decision. He still trips over the change in Gwen’s circumstances, however.
“Tell her,” he says, and then stops. What can he tell her? That her husband was wounded by the boy they had welcomed to their court, whom she had come to dote on almost as an adopted son, had been the one to wield the blade that had sliced through Arthur’s mail, skin, and muscle? That her beloved friend from her youth had taken it upon herself to journey with Arthur to the one place where he could be healed? That their time is over and that she should find a place to withdraw and bow out of history?
Perhaps he should have Leon tell her all of it, and tell her to repeat it to Lancelot.
Merlin’s never entirely sure what he tells Leon, but eventually, the knights depart the shores of the lake and move north, in the direction of Camelot. Merlin is alone. Days fade into weeks, weeks into months, into years. His beard grows long and streaked with white, and he knows that he would be quite frightful to any who might come across him. Still, his existence beside this large lake - few would call it a life by any means - is a peaceful one. He builds a small shelter under the tree, he catches fish and collects berries for nourishment, all the while never straying from eyesight of the lake.
By day he occupies himself with these tasks, but by night he dreams. He sees those final moments of the battle, as Arthur and Mordred hack at one another with their swords. He sees rather than hears Mordred mutter the spell against his blade. He watches the sword pierce Arthur’s chest, the blood pouring from the wound. He sees Excalibur rise up in Arthur’s hand to cleave Mordred’s head from his shoulders, faithful to its master to the last. It is those nightmares that have him wake screaming loud enough to be heard from miles.
It is after those nightmares that are the worst. Merlin’s very being aches, cries out in despair. It is not until then that he realizes just how right Kilgharrah and his mother were, that he and Arthur truly were two sides of the same coin. Tears leak from beneath his tightly closed eyes, wishing with all that he is that Arthur was with him now, even if he would just call him a girl for crying like this.
“I’m afraid that Arthur cannot accommodate you just yet, Merlin. Will I suffice?”
Merlin’s eyes shoot open and he sits up, his hand raised and a spell on his lips. He stares at the figure before him. Morgana is dressed much as she did in their youth, in the fine dresses that Uther had always provided for her, covered by the violet cloak of her older years. Her hands are folded together demurely in front her.
Slowly, Merlin lowers his hand and allows his magic to recede. His breathing slows as well.
“You look like hell,” she comments in the silence of the night.
He peers up at her. “Why are you here, Morgana? Is Arthur all right? Has something changed?”
She shakes her head. “He continues to rest and heal. Even Avalon’s magic needs time to work.” Morgana looks at him, a stern glint in her eye. “Why are you still here, Merlin? What good can possibly come from sitting here, pining like one of those foolish chits we all used to laugh at?”
Merlin glares at her. “I am not -”
Morgana snorts derisively. “Oh please, yes you were! Arthur would laugh himself sick and then knock you on the back of the head for behaving like an idiot!”
He keeps up the heated look for a few seconds, and then slumps, defeated. “What am I to do?” he asks helplessly. “Everything I did, everything I was, was for him. Now he’s gone.”
She doesn’t reply at first, and then her green eyes soften slightly. Merlin doesn’t react when she steps closer and then kneels down into his shelter beside him. “He is gone for now, Merlin, but he will come back,” she reminds him. “This I promised you and the knights that day, and that promise I will keep. He will need you to be ready, to have prepared for his return.” Morgana smirks at him. “You can hardly do what Arthur needs if you sit in this hovel moping like a deserted lover.”
He takes a deep breath and looks down. The ache inside of him is still tangible, still as real as any physical wound, but in all truth, the idea of actually doing something does not sound like a terrible one. He has never handled inaction very well, and this is probably the longest period of doing nothing he has ever gone through.
“Go, Merlin,” Morgana tells him. “Move on, do what you were always meant to do. Your work is far from finished.”
Merlin swallows past the lump in his throat. “And when will he come back?”
“I don’t know,” she answers honestly. “It will not be for some time, I know that, but he will return. I don’t think he’ll stand for staying idle, not when he thinks his people need him and you might be here mucking things up without him here to keep you out of trouble,” she adds laughingly.
Memories of all the times when Merlin had been the one to keep Arthur from ‘mucking things up’ come to mind and he rolls his eyes. The wave of mirth he feels surprises him. This is the first time he has felt anything remotely happy since the day Arthur’s blood poured over his hands and Merlin burned Mordred’s remains so thoroughly that not even ashes remained. Still, in the course of his life with Arthur, the good has always outweighed the bad. For every horrible event - Kilgharrah’s retribution on Camelot, Uther’s madness in his last years, the revelation of Merlin’s magic, Mordred’s treachery, Arthur and Gwen growing apart - there are many good, happy times to stand up in comparison. Defeating every enemy that sought to destroy Camelot, preserving the people’s safety against marauders, decorating the castle for various holidays with magic, and so many other moments, all small by themselves, but together… it was hardly a life to regret.
He looks up to Morgana again, ready to agree with her and make a smart remark about Arthur’s predilections for finding trouble, only to have his jaw his drop in shock. Where Morgana was kneeling, there is nothing. She is gone. He is alone again.
And yet he is not alone. Merlin feels a sense of purpose, a goal to work toward. That goal is Arthur’s return. He doesn’t doubt Morgana’s word about it being a long time before he comes back, but he knows that he must prepare for it. Merlin takes another deep breath and pushes himself out of the shelter. Looking out over the water, he sees the faintest hints of the sun coming up in the east, over the water.
It is going to be a good day. Merlin glances around at his little camp and mutters a few spells. The shelter is promptly concealed, the smoldering remains of his fire extinguished. Only his small shoulder pack remains, now sitting at his feet.
As he picks it up with one hand, the other hand brushes through his beard thoughtfully.
“Honestly, Merlin, why have you let that blasted thing grow? You look ridiculous. Are you planning on housing orphaned birds in it? Because I have no intention of kissing you again until it is gone.”
Merlin laughs quietly to himself as he turns his back on the water and moves off into the forest. Arthur really would say that, wouldn’t he?
This entry was originally posted on my Dreamwidth account, which currently has
comments. Comments welcome in either entry.
Author: angelqueen04
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Merlin/Arthur, Morgana
Warnings: Angst
Word Count: ~1,600 words
Disclaimer: Merlin is property of the BBC. I make no claims on it and write this purely for my own enjoyment.
Beta: N/a
Summary: Merlin sits beneath the tree long after the boat carrying Arthur vanishes.
Author’s Notes: Written for the merlinxarthur Fanfic Challenge. This didn’t turn out how I initially had thought it would, but still, I think I actually like it!
Merlin sits beneath the tree long after the boat carrying Arthur vanishes. He stares and stares, barely taking time to blink. The knights that remain in the wake of the disaster at Camlann attempt to speak to him - Bedwyr, Lionel, even Leon, whose age surpasses even Merlin’s own - but his answers are uninformative.
It is Leon who finally breaks through to him. “Merlin, we must return to Camelot. They must know, Lord Constantine…” he pauses briefly and adds, “Lancelot and her Majesty.”
Merlin does not respond at first. He knows that Leon is correct, if Arthur’s work at Camelot is to be preserved, steps must be taken to ensure that preservation. However, he feels grounded here, senses that if he moves from here, he might very well float away. Arthur has always been his anchor, and this spot, where Merlin last saw him, is sacred.
Finally, he nods to Leon. “Go,” he says simply.
Leon, exhaustion clear on his face, still exhibits his surprise. “Are you not coming home too?” he asks.
Merlin shakes his head. “No. I will stay for a time, and then move on. My work is done, for now.”
The knight stares at him for a moment, and then nods slowly. “Would you have me take any word back for you?” he inquires. “Any message for her M - Lady Guinevere?”
Merlin sighs inwardly. Even now, Leon has trouble leaving off Gwen’s title. In the aftermath of the crisis, though Arthur had refused to listen to demands that she be burned for being an unfaithful queen, no one would stand for her retaining the title of queen. Arthur’s wife, she always would be, but her time as his queen was at an end. It had been a contested decision, especially among the knights, and it still caused some confusion and discontent. Leon had stood against such a measure being put down on Gwen, but had spoken no more of it once Arthur had made the decision. He still trips over the change in Gwen’s circumstances, however.
“Tell her,” he says, and then stops. What can he tell her? That her husband was wounded by the boy they had welcomed to their court, whom she had come to dote on almost as an adopted son, had been the one to wield the blade that had sliced through Arthur’s mail, skin, and muscle? That her beloved friend from her youth had taken it upon herself to journey with Arthur to the one place where he could be healed? That their time is over and that she should find a place to withdraw and bow out of history?
Perhaps he should have Leon tell her all of it, and tell her to repeat it to Lancelot.
Merlin’s never entirely sure what he tells Leon, but eventually, the knights depart the shores of the lake and move north, in the direction of Camelot. Merlin is alone. Days fade into weeks, weeks into months, into years. His beard grows long and streaked with white, and he knows that he would be quite frightful to any who might come across him. Still, his existence beside this large lake - few would call it a life by any means - is a peaceful one. He builds a small shelter under the tree, he catches fish and collects berries for nourishment, all the while never straying from eyesight of the lake.
By day he occupies himself with these tasks, but by night he dreams. He sees those final moments of the battle, as Arthur and Mordred hack at one another with their swords. He sees rather than hears Mordred mutter the spell against his blade. He watches the sword pierce Arthur’s chest, the blood pouring from the wound. He sees Excalibur rise up in Arthur’s hand to cleave Mordred’s head from his shoulders, faithful to its master to the last. It is those nightmares that have him wake screaming loud enough to be heard from miles.
It is after those nightmares that are the worst. Merlin’s very being aches, cries out in despair. It is not until then that he realizes just how right Kilgharrah and his mother were, that he and Arthur truly were two sides of the same coin. Tears leak from beneath his tightly closed eyes, wishing with all that he is that Arthur was with him now, even if he would just call him a girl for crying like this.
“I’m afraid that Arthur cannot accommodate you just yet, Merlin. Will I suffice?”
Merlin’s eyes shoot open and he sits up, his hand raised and a spell on his lips. He stares at the figure before him. Morgana is dressed much as she did in their youth, in the fine dresses that Uther had always provided for her, covered by the violet cloak of her older years. Her hands are folded together demurely in front her.
Slowly, Merlin lowers his hand and allows his magic to recede. His breathing slows as well.
“You look like hell,” she comments in the silence of the night.
He peers up at her. “Why are you here, Morgana? Is Arthur all right? Has something changed?”
She shakes her head. “He continues to rest and heal. Even Avalon’s magic needs time to work.” Morgana looks at him, a stern glint in her eye. “Why are you still here, Merlin? What good can possibly come from sitting here, pining like one of those foolish chits we all used to laugh at?”
Merlin glares at her. “I am not -”
Morgana snorts derisively. “Oh please, yes you were! Arthur would laugh himself sick and then knock you on the back of the head for behaving like an idiot!”
He keeps up the heated look for a few seconds, and then slumps, defeated. “What am I to do?” he asks helplessly. “Everything I did, everything I was, was for him. Now he’s gone.”
She doesn’t reply at first, and then her green eyes soften slightly. Merlin doesn’t react when she steps closer and then kneels down into his shelter beside him. “He is gone for now, Merlin, but he will come back,” she reminds him. “This I promised you and the knights that day, and that promise I will keep. He will need you to be ready, to have prepared for his return.” Morgana smirks at him. “You can hardly do what Arthur needs if you sit in this hovel moping like a deserted lover.”
He takes a deep breath and looks down. The ache inside of him is still tangible, still as real as any physical wound, but in all truth, the idea of actually doing something does not sound like a terrible one. He has never handled inaction very well, and this is probably the longest period of doing nothing he has ever gone through.
“Go, Merlin,” Morgana tells him. “Move on, do what you were always meant to do. Your work is far from finished.”
Merlin swallows past the lump in his throat. “And when will he come back?”
“I don’t know,” she answers honestly. “It will not be for some time, I know that, but he will return. I don’t think he’ll stand for staying idle, not when he thinks his people need him and you might be here mucking things up without him here to keep you out of trouble,” she adds laughingly.
Memories of all the times when Merlin had been the one to keep Arthur from ‘mucking things up’ come to mind and he rolls his eyes. The wave of mirth he feels surprises him. This is the first time he has felt anything remotely happy since the day Arthur’s blood poured over his hands and Merlin burned Mordred’s remains so thoroughly that not even ashes remained. Still, in the course of his life with Arthur, the good has always outweighed the bad. For every horrible event - Kilgharrah’s retribution on Camelot, Uther’s madness in his last years, the revelation of Merlin’s magic, Mordred’s treachery, Arthur and Gwen growing apart - there are many good, happy times to stand up in comparison. Defeating every enemy that sought to destroy Camelot, preserving the people’s safety against marauders, decorating the castle for various holidays with magic, and so many other moments, all small by themselves, but together… it was hardly a life to regret.
He looks up to Morgana again, ready to agree with her and make a smart remark about Arthur’s predilections for finding trouble, only to have his jaw his drop in shock. Where Morgana was kneeling, there is nothing. She is gone. He is alone again.
And yet he is not alone. Merlin feels a sense of purpose, a goal to work toward. That goal is Arthur’s return. He doesn’t doubt Morgana’s word about it being a long time before he comes back, but he knows that he must prepare for it. Merlin takes another deep breath and pushes himself out of the shelter. Looking out over the water, he sees the faintest hints of the sun coming up in the east, over the water.
It is going to be a good day. Merlin glances around at his little camp and mutters a few spells. The shelter is promptly concealed, the smoldering remains of his fire extinguished. Only his small shoulder pack remains, now sitting at his feet.
As he picks it up with one hand, the other hand brushes through his beard thoughtfully.
“Honestly, Merlin, why have you let that blasted thing grow? You look ridiculous. Are you planning on housing orphaned birds in it? Because I have no intention of kissing you again until it is gone.”
Merlin laughs quietly to himself as he turns his back on the water and moves off into the forest. Arthur really would say that, wouldn’t he?
This entry was originally posted on my Dreamwidth account, which currently has
comments. Comments welcome in either entry.