Fic | Merlin/Arthur | If
Merlin | Merlin/Arthur | PG-13
If Igraine hadn't died.
If the King had not lost his mind.
If Nimueh had gone the way of forgiveness, instead of resentment and revenge.
If magic had not been banished from Camelot.
+
Merlin dreams of gleaming turrets and noisy market places, and his mother tells him stories of a golden family and a throne that is wise and just and wears a smile. Growing up, Merlin is delighted when he realises he possesses something the others do not, something to make his way into the court with, something he has that he can offer alongside his fealty. His mother laughs and praises his attempts at levitating the sacks of grain all over their tiny home, even the times when Merlin's concentration is suddenly broken and the grain ends up spilling all over the wooden floor.
Merlin practises, with a burn to prove himself, to become better, the best there is, so that the court has no choice but to welcome him with joy and gratitude.
And he dreams, of the castle and the shining heart of it.
+
The whole village comes together for Merlin's last night in Ealdor. Hunith laughs and cries, Will is grudgingly supportive, and Merlin makes the sparks from the great fire dance and form animal shapes for the squealing children hanging on to the hem of his shirt and to his every word. Merlin laughs with the villagers, and accepts hugs and pats on the back, but his mind is miles away, ready for the road.
Merlin begins the walk in the dawn, as all the others retire for their huts for a meagre few hours of sleep, and only Hunith and Will are there for the last silent exchanged words, last pressing of palms.
Merlin is soon a small speck in the distance, then gone altogether; Ealdor is suddenly far emptier than it was the morning before. Merlin walks, sleeps under the stars, and tries to imagine the first setting of sights on the city of his dreams and ambitions.
+
Camelot isn't what he imagined.
It's more.
More than imagination or words or songs can paint or depict, the city is a breathing entity that pulses with the energy and the sweetness in the air, and echoes with awed stories about the royal family, repeated on the streets and in taverns, always with tones of love and respect.
Merlin has arrived home.
And when he is invited to meet with the King, present is also the Crown Prince, heir to the throne--
and Merlin knows he has arrived home.
+
Merlin's place in the court is flexible, and people suspect a completely new position and title have been invented to accommodate the brilliantly talented newcomer. The one thing they know, though, in spite of what ever office Merlin is supposed to be fulfilling, is that the most sure-fire way of finding him is looking for him beside the Crown Prince. Never seen such loyalty, such dedication, they say, and some of their eyes twinkle, and grins are hidden behind hands or polite coughs.
+
Three months after arriving at Camelot, Merlin is desperately trying to find the courage to tell Arthur how he feels; so sure when it comes to his gift, yet still occasionally so defeated by nerves in the presence of the prince. Sometimes Merlin gets frightened of his own greed, the audacity in reaching for this, this unearthly beauty and strength of soul, on top of everything else he has been given - but the nearness of his Liege drugs him, and his smile alleviates Merlin's fears.
It's not possible for there to be anything bad in Merlin's desire to touch the glowing Prince; he yearns not to possess, but to pleasure. To serve; to shield. To treasure.
In the light of candles, when the Solstice is near, Merlin sits with Arthur in the prince's chambers, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth, hands shaking and a terrified nausea churning in his stomach. Arthur's head is cocked, questioning, and the smile is in his eyes if not on his lips; and Merlin wants to weep in frustration for fear of never getting closer than this, never getting the words out, never being allowed to tangle his fingers in the silky hair at the nape of Arthur's neck.
"Merlin?" Arthur is not concerned yet, but becoming more puzzled by the second. His hand makes a tiny aborted movement on the table, a twitch in Merlin's direction.
No choice to be made. No control over his limbs. Merlin trembles, lowering himself to the floor, and trembles while making his way, on his knees, over to Arthur's large, carved seat. Arthur isn't saying his name, now. The question is in his blue, blue eyes.
Merlin takes Arthur's hand from where it has been resting in his lap; reaches for the other on the table. It meets his halfway.
Arthur's palms are turned upwards as Merlin bends his head and kisses the insides of Arthur's wrists.
Arthur draws in a tight breath, and Merlin counts a dozen eternities, shaking, the silence pressing on his eardrums; yet he can't conceive of letting go of Arthur, not even to tear his hair out or to cover his eyes.
Then Arthur is sliding down from his seat, the Crown Prince settling on his knees to mirror Merlin's position. When he brings up Merlin's hands to his mouth and kisses first the trembling fists, then the wrists, then--
Merlin inhales; then inhales again because it's been so long, a lifetime spent frozen or dying or dead, he's forgotten the feel of air in his lungs.
The candles flare and waver as the Warlock and the Prince undress each other and meld together.
+
But Igraine did die, and Uther lost his wife, and maybe his mind, a little - and Camelot is a home for hopes, but not for dreams.
If Igraine hadn't died.
If the King had not lost his mind.
If Nimueh had gone the way of forgiveness, instead of resentment and revenge.
If magic had not been banished from Camelot.
+
Merlin dreams of gleaming turrets and noisy market places, and his mother tells him stories of a golden family and a throne that is wise and just and wears a smile. Growing up, Merlin is delighted when he realises he possesses something the others do not, something to make his way into the court with, something he has that he can offer alongside his fealty. His mother laughs and praises his attempts at levitating the sacks of grain all over their tiny home, even the times when Merlin's concentration is suddenly broken and the grain ends up spilling all over the wooden floor.
Merlin practises, with a burn to prove himself, to become better, the best there is, so that the court has no choice but to welcome him with joy and gratitude.
And he dreams, of the castle and the shining heart of it.
+
The whole village comes together for Merlin's last night in Ealdor. Hunith laughs and cries, Will is grudgingly supportive, and Merlin makes the sparks from the great fire dance and form animal shapes for the squealing children hanging on to the hem of his shirt and to his every word. Merlin laughs with the villagers, and accepts hugs and pats on the back, but his mind is miles away, ready for the road.
Merlin begins the walk in the dawn, as all the others retire for their huts for a meagre few hours of sleep, and only Hunith and Will are there for the last silent exchanged words, last pressing of palms.
Merlin is soon a small speck in the distance, then gone altogether; Ealdor is suddenly far emptier than it was the morning before. Merlin walks, sleeps under the stars, and tries to imagine the first setting of sights on the city of his dreams and ambitions.
+
Camelot isn't what he imagined.
It's more.
More than imagination or words or songs can paint or depict, the city is a breathing entity that pulses with the energy and the sweetness in the air, and echoes with awed stories about the royal family, repeated on the streets and in taverns, always with tones of love and respect.
Merlin has arrived home.
And when he is invited to meet with the King, present is also the Crown Prince, heir to the throne--
and Merlin knows he has arrived home.
+
Merlin's place in the court is flexible, and people suspect a completely new position and title have been invented to accommodate the brilliantly talented newcomer. The one thing they know, though, in spite of what ever office Merlin is supposed to be fulfilling, is that the most sure-fire way of finding him is looking for him beside the Crown Prince. Never seen such loyalty, such dedication, they say, and some of their eyes twinkle, and grins are hidden behind hands or polite coughs.
+
Three months after arriving at Camelot, Merlin is desperately trying to find the courage to tell Arthur how he feels; so sure when it comes to his gift, yet still occasionally so defeated by nerves in the presence of the prince. Sometimes Merlin gets frightened of his own greed, the audacity in reaching for this, this unearthly beauty and strength of soul, on top of everything else he has been given - but the nearness of his Liege drugs him, and his smile alleviates Merlin's fears.
It's not possible for there to be anything bad in Merlin's desire to touch the glowing Prince; he yearns not to possess, but to pleasure. To serve; to shield. To treasure.
In the light of candles, when the Solstice is near, Merlin sits with Arthur in the prince's chambers, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth, hands shaking and a terrified nausea churning in his stomach. Arthur's head is cocked, questioning, and the smile is in his eyes if not on his lips; and Merlin wants to weep in frustration for fear of never getting closer than this, never getting the words out, never being allowed to tangle his fingers in the silky hair at the nape of Arthur's neck.
"Merlin?" Arthur is not concerned yet, but becoming more puzzled by the second. His hand makes a tiny aborted movement on the table, a twitch in Merlin's direction.
No choice to be made. No control over his limbs. Merlin trembles, lowering himself to the floor, and trembles while making his way, on his knees, over to Arthur's large, carved seat. Arthur isn't saying his name, now. The question is in his blue, blue eyes.
Merlin takes Arthur's hand from where it has been resting in his lap; reaches for the other on the table. It meets his halfway.
Arthur's palms are turned upwards as Merlin bends his head and kisses the insides of Arthur's wrists.
Arthur draws in a tight breath, and Merlin counts a dozen eternities, shaking, the silence pressing on his eardrums; yet he can't conceive of letting go of Arthur, not even to tear his hair out or to cover his eyes.
Then Arthur is sliding down from his seat, the Crown Prince settling on his knees to mirror Merlin's position. When he brings up Merlin's hands to his mouth and kisses first the trembling fists, then the wrists, then--
Merlin inhales; then inhales again because it's been so long, a lifetime spent frozen or dying or dead, he's forgotten the feel of air in his lungs.
The candles flare and waver as the Warlock and the Prince undress each other and meld together.
+
But Igraine did die, and Uther lost his wife, and maybe his mind, a little - and Camelot is a home for hopes, but not for dreams.