Fic: my favourite one-man show [Merlin]
Laura, I'm working on it; I'm so sorry for the delay, and I promise you, it'll be done soon.
Title: my favourite one-man show
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing/Rating: Merlin/Arthur, PG
Word Count: 1,260 (approximately)
Date Completed: 2 November 2009
Disclaimer: These people? Aren't mine.
Author's Notes: Originally written for thisissirius' Merlin/Arthur Magical Reveal Meme, but cleaned up a bit since then. Also, I sort of like how this one came out (surprisingly; I hated it while writing it, but after it was done? Maybe not so much), so I figured it deserved its own fic post. I think anything over 1,000 words will get that as a rule. At least until I decide to break that.
Arthur lives in routine. His days are measured, ordered:
Odd, that.
&
Everything in Camelot has its schedule. The farmers plough their fields and sow them with fresh seeds in spring, water and tend to them through the summer, strip them bare in the autumn, and keep watch over them in the winter. The markets ebb and flow, busiest on the weekends when the streets are filled so much that even Arthur has trouble pushing his way through the crowd, then quieted to just the in-city folk from Monday on. The court feasts: tender lamb and fragrant greens for the vernal equinox, the walls hung with pale gold tapestries and the gentry decked out in pastels, light and airy-feeling; spiced pork and nutty squash for the autumnal, everything dark with red and orange and bold, bold colours.
When he was younger, when he had tutors who explained festivals and harvests and seasons to him, Arthur would watch every day for glimpses of changes from the one before. They were infinitely exciting, all the ways he could see what he was being told and understand.
Most of the time now, though, Arthur doesn’t notice the transitions. He wakes up one morning and rides past fields heavy gold with wheat, comes back the next night to a castle full of boarded-up windows and blazing fires and echoes in the empty corridors where the winter wind tumbles through, leaves a week later to find the sun high overhead and the farmers laden with bulging bags of seed. It’s just how it is.
&
Arthur sometimes thinks that he should maybe take more conscious notice of the little things. It would probably help, seeing all the details that lead to the bigger picture as they happen, noticing when the leaves first start to fade and when the snow first starts to feel more like puddly slush than packed ice under his boots. It might give him an advantage, being in the know of exactly how and when and where and why Camelot is changing, instead of simply having to assess the change when he first sees it, beautiful and abrupt.
&
Physically, Arthur’s horse is a lovely creature: strong and sure-footed, intelligent, fast in all the ways that matter. Temperamentally, though, she’s a bit of a right bastard at times. Some days, she is the most ill-mannered beast in the stables, ignoring all directions and snapping at anyone who comes near.
One Tuesday, Arthur sends Merlin to the stables to ready his horse for a ride. Arthur never takes that ride because his horse is in a temper again, enough so that Arthur’s barely able to grab her bridle and lead her back to the stall, both of their moods sour. Arthur dodges bites and the occasional attempted kick as he strips her of her tack, years of experience the only thing keeping him uninjured.
Later, when Merlin is curled against him and Arthur is tracing the bumps of his spine, he looks at Merlin’s bruise-free skin and thinks about how Merlin, who can barely sit straight on a horse on a windless day, managed to get all that tack on and still escape unscathed.
Merlin snuffles a bit in his sleep and tucks his head into the crook of Arthur’s neck, moves his hand until it rests flat on Arthur’s abdomen. His nose is cold where it presses just below Arthur’s ear; his fingertips are warm where they lie on Arthur’s stomach. Arthur smiles at the contrast.
&
His father always tells him, “Being a king is about constancy, Arthur. Constancy, above all else. Be firm and consistent; give your people the stability of knowing what they can expect from you, and they will love you for it. Change too often, and you will appear weak, and they will not support a weak king.”
&
One winter, before Merlin stopped being Arthur’s manservant and started being whatever he is now that lets him kiss Arthur and smile about it (and when did that happen? Arthur forgets, maybe because he doesn’t want to remember when it wasn’t like this), Merlin broke into Arthur’s chambers at night.
Arthur knows that Merlin still thinks he doesn’t know. But he does, every detail. Arthur has always been a light sleeper; he’s also always been one to understand the value of discretion, and of faking it sometimes.
What this means is that Arthur knows that Merlin whispered his way into the room. He knows that the fire Merlin started in the grate burned impossibly on ashes, not fresh logs. He knows that when Merlin pulled the blankets back up tight around Arthur’s chin, he did so from across the room, probably too afraid of waking Arthur by accidentally jostling him. He guesses -- his eyes were closed, so he can’t really know, not for sure -- that Merlin studied the way Arthur’s face looked, asleep and unlined and shadowy from firelight, much the same as how Arthur had studied him on so many hunting trips before.
After Merlin left, Arthur thought for a while about half-shadows and seasons and magic. The next morning, he pretended not to notice how his bathwater was hotter than it should be after fifteen minutes’ preparation time, and he pretended not to notice the way Merlin’s mouth moved slightly as he straightened the impossible wrinkles in Arthur’s folded-too-long winter clothing. He did this the next morning, and the next, and the next, until now, and how he can’t really remember when not-notice Merlin’s not-magic entered his routine, sandwiched between dress and eat lunch and everything else.
&
Arthur thinks his father has the wrong idea about change. He suspects that Uther fears it because it’s, at its core, another form of magic, something so subtle you don’t catch it until it’s completed and suddenly, irrevocably unveiled before you.
Arthur doesn’t want to be afraid of it. He may not understand why things change, seasons and fashions and people (himself), but he knows it is too valuable to not embrace.
Sometimes, when he is feeling at his most treasonous, or perhaps at his most optimistic, Arthur thinks about all the little ways he will deviate from his father’s reign. He thinks about uniting Albion at the speed of a trickling brook, slow and steady and insistent. He thinks about lower taxes and fewer restricted feasts, about seeing his people smile when he walks past on market days and festival nights. He thinks about the farmers who sow rune-etched stones in with their seeds, how the harvests grow that much higher when they do; and about Gaius’ sometimes-too-miraculous cures; and about Merlin accidentally whispering ancient words against Arthur’s skin, sending too-good shivers up his spine every time.
He thinks about finally being able to acknowledge the things he has not-noticed long enough that he can’t remember when he hadn’t, and something in him thrums impatiently, ready to start.
Title: my favourite one-man show
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing/Rating: Merlin/Arthur, PG
Word Count: 1,260 (approximately)
Date Completed: 2 November 2009
Disclaimer: These people? Aren't mine.
Author's Notes: Originally written for thisissirius' Merlin/Arthur Magical Reveal Meme, but cleaned up a bit since then. Also, I sort of like how this one came out (surprisingly; I hated it while writing it, but after it was done? Maybe not so much), so I figured it deserved its own fic post. I think anything over 1,000 words will get that as a rule. At least until I decide to break that.
Arthur lives in routine. His days are measured, ordered:
- Wake up
- Eat breakfast
- Dress
- Attend to princely matters of state
- Train with the knights
- Yell at Merlin
- Eat lunch
- Attend to more princely matters of state
- Take afternoon ride
- Eat supper with his father and Morgana
- Undress
- Sleep
Odd, that.
&
Everything in Camelot has its schedule. The farmers plough their fields and sow them with fresh seeds in spring, water and tend to them through the summer, strip them bare in the autumn, and keep watch over them in the winter. The markets ebb and flow, busiest on the weekends when the streets are filled so much that even Arthur has trouble pushing his way through the crowd, then quieted to just the in-city folk from Monday on. The court feasts: tender lamb and fragrant greens for the vernal equinox, the walls hung with pale gold tapestries and the gentry decked out in pastels, light and airy-feeling; spiced pork and nutty squash for the autumnal, everything dark with red and orange and bold, bold colours.
When he was younger, when he had tutors who explained festivals and harvests and seasons to him, Arthur would watch every day for glimpses of changes from the one before. They were infinitely exciting, all the ways he could see what he was being told and understand.
Most of the time now, though, Arthur doesn’t notice the transitions. He wakes up one morning and rides past fields heavy gold with wheat, comes back the next night to a castle full of boarded-up windows and blazing fires and echoes in the empty corridors where the winter wind tumbles through, leaves a week later to find the sun high overhead and the farmers laden with bulging bags of seed. It’s just how it is.
&
Arthur sometimes thinks that he should maybe take more conscious notice of the little things. It would probably help, seeing all the details that lead to the bigger picture as they happen, noticing when the leaves first start to fade and when the snow first starts to feel more like puddly slush than packed ice under his boots. It might give him an advantage, being in the know of exactly how and when and where and why Camelot is changing, instead of simply having to assess the change when he first sees it, beautiful and abrupt.
&
Physically, Arthur’s horse is a lovely creature: strong and sure-footed, intelligent, fast in all the ways that matter. Temperamentally, though, she’s a bit of a right bastard at times. Some days, she is the most ill-mannered beast in the stables, ignoring all directions and snapping at anyone who comes near.
One Tuesday, Arthur sends Merlin to the stables to ready his horse for a ride. Arthur never takes that ride because his horse is in a temper again, enough so that Arthur’s barely able to grab her bridle and lead her back to the stall, both of their moods sour. Arthur dodges bites and the occasional attempted kick as he strips her of her tack, years of experience the only thing keeping him uninjured.
Later, when Merlin is curled against him and Arthur is tracing the bumps of his spine, he looks at Merlin’s bruise-free skin and thinks about how Merlin, who can barely sit straight on a horse on a windless day, managed to get all that tack on and still escape unscathed.
Merlin snuffles a bit in his sleep and tucks his head into the crook of Arthur’s neck, moves his hand until it rests flat on Arthur’s abdomen. His nose is cold where it presses just below Arthur’s ear; his fingertips are warm where they lie on Arthur’s stomach. Arthur smiles at the contrast.
&
His father always tells him, “Being a king is about constancy, Arthur. Constancy, above all else. Be firm and consistent; give your people the stability of knowing what they can expect from you, and they will love you for it. Change too often, and you will appear weak, and they will not support a weak king.”
&
One winter, before Merlin stopped being Arthur’s manservant and started being whatever he is now that lets him kiss Arthur and smile about it (and when did that happen? Arthur forgets, maybe because he doesn’t want to remember when it wasn’t like this), Merlin broke into Arthur’s chambers at night.
Arthur knows that Merlin still thinks he doesn’t know. But he does, every detail. Arthur has always been a light sleeper; he’s also always been one to understand the value of discretion, and of faking it sometimes.
What this means is that Arthur knows that Merlin whispered his way into the room. He knows that the fire Merlin started in the grate burned impossibly on ashes, not fresh logs. He knows that when Merlin pulled the blankets back up tight around Arthur’s chin, he did so from across the room, probably too afraid of waking Arthur by accidentally jostling him. He guesses -- his eyes were closed, so he can’t really know, not for sure -- that Merlin studied the way Arthur’s face looked, asleep and unlined and shadowy from firelight, much the same as how Arthur had studied him on so many hunting trips before.
After Merlin left, Arthur thought for a while about half-shadows and seasons and magic. The next morning, he pretended not to notice how his bathwater was hotter than it should be after fifteen minutes’ preparation time, and he pretended not to notice the way Merlin’s mouth moved slightly as he straightened the impossible wrinkles in Arthur’s folded-too-long winter clothing. He did this the next morning, and the next, and the next, until now, and how he can’t really remember when not-notice Merlin’s not-magic entered his routine, sandwiched between dress and eat lunch and everything else.
&
Arthur thinks his father has the wrong idea about change. He suspects that Uther fears it because it’s, at its core, another form of magic, something so subtle you don’t catch it until it’s completed and suddenly, irrevocably unveiled before you.
Arthur doesn’t want to be afraid of it. He may not understand why things change, seasons and fashions and people (himself), but he knows it is too valuable to not embrace.
Sometimes, when he is feeling at his most treasonous, or perhaps at his most optimistic, Arthur thinks about all the little ways he will deviate from his father’s reign. He thinks about uniting Albion at the speed of a trickling brook, slow and steady and insistent. He thinks about lower taxes and fewer restricted feasts, about seeing his people smile when he walks past on market days and festival nights. He thinks about the farmers who sow rune-etched stones in with their seeds, how the harvests grow that much higher when they do; and about Gaius’ sometimes-too-miraculous cures; and about Merlin accidentally whispering ancient words against Arthur’s skin, sending too-good shivers up his spine every time.
He thinks about finally being able to acknowledge the things he has not-noticed long enough that he can’t remember when he hadn’t, and something in him thrums impatiently, ready to start.