[Fic] Rightful Places
Title: Rightful Places
Author:fish_and_celery
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Pairing: Gen, with slight Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: 1208
Summary:(Arthur always finds his way back to his throne.) Arthur and Merlin always find their way back to each other.
Arthur is born, crying as all babies are, but his voice is too sad and his blue eyes are too clear. His is not the cry of a child. It is the cry of a man who has lost many, many things. He grows, a chubby child, round faced and a little ball of energy, and stretches into a lank and angular teenager, then fills out, as he approaches the first years of his manhood, into a body ancient Greek sculptors would weep at, with a face that wins him the favour of many a beautiful lady.
He is not a prince in this life time, but he is something close. His father has lands and titles enough, and he is raised as he was in his first life, learning the workings of power, to manage lands and tithes and vassals and comes to expect respect in return for the protection he affords those in his territory. He learns to love and to protect. He has loyal knights at his commands, though they are more followers than friends.
In the summer of his seventeenth year, Arthur begins to have some very strange dreams. He sees in them another castle, another land, another time, but it is all familiar enough. There is his father, giving audiences, and there are his knights, practicing swordplay. There he is, too, still being groomed for power. But Arthur also sees someone else. He watches, at night, another young man, a sorcerer, who stands by his side and protects him. But more than that, this young man loves him and laughs with him. Arthur then learns his name: Merlin. His dreams, as dreams are wont to be, are always half remembered at best upon waking, but every vision he has of Merlin is clear and vivid as a memory.
Arthur lives between the heaviness of his duties in the day and the lightness of the joy his visions fill him with at night, but he is never quite satisfied, and he is always on edge, as if in anticipation of some grand life changing event. He almost feels it, the electric hum of approaching destiny.
One day, the King of the land calls a tournament, for all of the young heirs of his favoured lords. He is dying, old and childless, and even being the most powerful man in the country could not save him from loneliness. His brother has not outlived him, his sons are dead, and his nearest relation is the prince of a country that was hostile to his. The King needed an heir, and was searching for a good man.
He calls the tournament to find the man with the strongest sword arm, but he also assigns tests of courage, wisdom, and compassion. What he does not know is that he is really only testing one of his candidates.
At his side, is a young man who murmured into his ear to advise him in choosing his tasks. His eyes sometimes glowed gold, when the light was right, and he always smiled as if he kept a beautiful secret.
He is Merlin.
Arthur wins for him.
They meet reunite, in the smaller audience chamber of the palace, empty but for the pair of them. The room is done up with bright red drapes and wallpaper, accented with gold patterns and details. Merlin smiles at the pointed echo of Arthur’s former colours.
(The King is dead.) Long live the King.
Arthur is kneeling in front of the dais that elevates the pair of throne like chairs at the front. His head is bowed, but his back is unbent. He is wearing chain mail, familiar as anything and Excalibur at his waist like was an old friend even though he had only received it that morning. His red livery was conspicuously absent. Merlin thinks distantly that it was a good thing that Arthur had left the cloak, or he’d be blending into the drapery right now. Merlin also thinks that he might be faintly hysterical.
The room is carpeted, and Merlin’s footsteps should by all accounts have been muffled, inaudible even, but as Merlin approached him, Arthur twitched, and angled himself around Merlin’s presence.
Merlin wets his lips, and swallows thickly.
“Greetings, Arthur Pendragon.” Merlin says, doing the best he could at a regal enough tone. Arthur nods in acknowledgement, still keeping his gaze down in a perfunctory gesture of respect, although his bearing was as haughty as any other ruler.
Merlin swallows again.
There was nothing for it, really.
Well then.
Merlin steels himself, and walks up to one of the two padded thrones at the front. He sits at the one on the right, the smaller and less ostentations of the two. It was his place.
“Arthur-” Merlin begins. Arthur looks up and meets Merlin’s eyes for the first time. Merlin looks right back, and relaxes when Arthur gives a satisfied smile.
“Arthur,” he begins again. “Today, you and I are here to honour a great tradition, one of the oldest which remains from the Old Religion. It is a reaffirmation, and it is a vow. It is reawakening, and it is new knowledge. This is a ritual which has been passed down through the generations for a thousand years, and it has always been meant for you. This is the ritual of your second coming Arthur Pendragon. Do you submit yourself to me so that I may once again crown you as King of Albion?”
“I do.” Arthur answers.
“Do you promise to rule justly and with compassion, and to always look to the needs of your people?”
“I do.” Arthur repeats solemnly.
“And do you, Arthur Pendragon, swear to honour and obey the vows which you have made here, to your dying day?”
“I do.” Arthur breathes, anticipation lighting up his eyes.
“Very well, then. Rule wisely and rule well, King Arthur.” Arthur smiles and silently vows to do as he is instructed. Merlin smiles, and places a golden circlet on his brow, the movement tender in its familiarity.
“Long live Arthur, Once and Future King.” Merlin pronounces, his voice tinged with pride. Arthur feels an echo of some unintelligible emotion in his chest, and smiles back at Merlin. Then, he walks up the steps of the dais to drop again to his knees in front of Merlin, and kisses his hand.
Arthur’s pose is different this time: where, before, his head was bowed but his back was unbent, a show of pride and strength even on his knees, he is now truly submissive, touching his lips with gentle reverence to Merlin’s hand. “My lord Emrys” he whispers, "thank you."
“You remember me?” Merlin asks, caught between satisfaction and surprise.
“Always.” Arthur answers with conviction. “I see you in my dreams every night, and even while I forget who I was, I still remember every moment of you. I think whatever kingdom I might have ruled, whatever monsters I might have slayed in my dreams, I probably did it all for you.”
“Remember yourself, then, and remember our Camelot and the Albion which we built.” Merlin orders in a quiet murmur, touching a gentle hand to Arthur’s forehead.
And cocooned in a haze of golden light, Arthur remembers.
Author:fish_and_celery
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Pairing: Gen, with slight Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: 1208
Summary:(Arthur always finds his way back to his throne.) Arthur and Merlin always find their way back to each other.
Arthur is born, crying as all babies are, but his voice is too sad and his blue eyes are too clear. His is not the cry of a child. It is the cry of a man who has lost many, many things. He grows, a chubby child, round faced and a little ball of energy, and stretches into a lank and angular teenager, then fills out, as he approaches the first years of his manhood, into a body ancient Greek sculptors would weep at, with a face that wins him the favour of many a beautiful lady.
He is not a prince in this life time, but he is something close. His father has lands and titles enough, and he is raised as he was in his first life, learning the workings of power, to manage lands and tithes and vassals and comes to expect respect in return for the protection he affords those in his territory. He learns to love and to protect. He has loyal knights at his commands, though they are more followers than friends.
In the summer of his seventeenth year, Arthur begins to have some very strange dreams. He sees in them another castle, another land, another time, but it is all familiar enough. There is his father, giving audiences, and there are his knights, practicing swordplay. There he is, too, still being groomed for power. But Arthur also sees someone else. He watches, at night, another young man, a sorcerer, who stands by his side and protects him. But more than that, this young man loves him and laughs with him. Arthur then learns his name: Merlin. His dreams, as dreams are wont to be, are always half remembered at best upon waking, but every vision he has of Merlin is clear and vivid as a memory.
Arthur lives between the heaviness of his duties in the day and the lightness of the joy his visions fill him with at night, but he is never quite satisfied, and he is always on edge, as if in anticipation of some grand life changing event. He almost feels it, the electric hum of approaching destiny.
One day, the King of the land calls a tournament, for all of the young heirs of his favoured lords. He is dying, old and childless, and even being the most powerful man in the country could not save him from loneliness. His brother has not outlived him, his sons are dead, and his nearest relation is the prince of a country that was hostile to his. The King needed an heir, and was searching for a good man.
He calls the tournament to find the man with the strongest sword arm, but he also assigns tests of courage, wisdom, and compassion. What he does not know is that he is really only testing one of his candidates.
At his side, is a young man who murmured into his ear to advise him in choosing his tasks. His eyes sometimes glowed gold, when the light was right, and he always smiled as if he kept a beautiful secret.
He is Merlin.
Arthur wins for him.
They meet reunite, in the smaller audience chamber of the palace, empty but for the pair of them. The room is done up with bright red drapes and wallpaper, accented with gold patterns and details. Merlin smiles at the pointed echo of Arthur’s former colours.
(The King is dead.) Long live the King.
Arthur is kneeling in front of the dais that elevates the pair of throne like chairs at the front. His head is bowed, but his back is unbent. He is wearing chain mail, familiar as anything and Excalibur at his waist like was an old friend even though he had only received it that morning. His red livery was conspicuously absent. Merlin thinks distantly that it was a good thing that Arthur had left the cloak, or he’d be blending into the drapery right now. Merlin also thinks that he might be faintly hysterical.
The room is carpeted, and Merlin’s footsteps should by all accounts have been muffled, inaudible even, but as Merlin approached him, Arthur twitched, and angled himself around Merlin’s presence.
Merlin wets his lips, and swallows thickly.
“Greetings, Arthur Pendragon.” Merlin says, doing the best he could at a regal enough tone. Arthur nods in acknowledgement, still keeping his gaze down in a perfunctory gesture of respect, although his bearing was as haughty as any other ruler.
Merlin swallows again.
There was nothing for it, really.
Well then.
Merlin steels himself, and walks up to one of the two padded thrones at the front. He sits at the one on the right, the smaller and less ostentations of the two. It was his place.
“Arthur-” Merlin begins. Arthur looks up and meets Merlin’s eyes for the first time. Merlin looks right back, and relaxes when Arthur gives a satisfied smile.
“Arthur,” he begins again. “Today, you and I are here to honour a great tradition, one of the oldest which remains from the Old Religion. It is a reaffirmation, and it is a vow. It is reawakening, and it is new knowledge. This is a ritual which has been passed down through the generations for a thousand years, and it has always been meant for you. This is the ritual of your second coming Arthur Pendragon. Do you submit yourself to me so that I may once again crown you as King of Albion?”
“I do.” Arthur answers.
“Do you promise to rule justly and with compassion, and to always look to the needs of your people?”
“I do.” Arthur repeats solemnly.
“And do you, Arthur Pendragon, swear to honour and obey the vows which you have made here, to your dying day?”
“I do.” Arthur breathes, anticipation lighting up his eyes.
“Very well, then. Rule wisely and rule well, King Arthur.” Arthur smiles and silently vows to do as he is instructed. Merlin smiles, and places a golden circlet on his brow, the movement tender in its familiarity.
“Long live Arthur, Once and Future King.” Merlin pronounces, his voice tinged with pride. Arthur feels an echo of some unintelligible emotion in his chest, and smiles back at Merlin. Then, he walks up the steps of the dais to drop again to his knees in front of Merlin, and kisses his hand.
Arthur’s pose is different this time: where, before, his head was bowed but his back was unbent, a show of pride and strength even on his knees, he is now truly submissive, touching his lips with gentle reverence to Merlin’s hand. “My lord Emrys” he whispers, "thank you."
“You remember me?” Merlin asks, caught between satisfaction and surprise.
“Always.” Arthur answers with conviction. “I see you in my dreams every night, and even while I forget who I was, I still remember every moment of you. I think whatever kingdom I might have ruled, whatever monsters I might have slayed in my dreams, I probably did it all for you.”
“Remember yourself, then, and remember our Camelot and the Albion which we built.” Merlin orders in a quiet murmur, touching a gentle hand to Arthur’s forehead.
And cocooned in a haze of golden light, Arthur remembers.