srin
in
mad_poetics
Time and Tide
Title: Time and Tide
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Spoilers: 5x13 like woah.
Rating: G
Warnings: I think "post 5x13" just about covers it.
Length: ~1700 words
Summary: Freya watches.
Note: Oh you silly script writers, you left this VITALLY IMPORTANT bit out of the finale; here, I fixed it for you.
Arthur woke with a gasp of Merlin on his lips, and across the water, on the shore of the lake, Merlin stirred for the first time since he had collapsed there.
How much time had passed, hours or days, Freya could not say; she knew only that all the while, the very air had quivered with the immense power of Merlin’s grief. She had tried to reach out to him, early on, but he was too deep in his agony to respond, perhaps even to notice; for all intents and purposes, as insensate as his fallen king.
On the isle Arthur shifted, as though into an embrace, then jerked upright when he recognized that it was only cold stone beneath him. He looked around him wildly, and though it was impossible that his human eyes should see so far, his gaze went unerringly towards Merlin away on the shore.
Freya gathered the image of her body around her and appeared to him. She did not want to, particularly, could not help resenting him a little even knowing what he meant to Albion, to Merlin. Perhaps especially knowing what he meant to Merlin, and what his presence here was doing to Merlin. But she had her responsibilities, and she knew that Merlin would not want him neglected.
“Welcome, Once and Future King,” she said.
He startled, hand reaching for the hilt of the sword that was no longer at his hip.
“Who are you? Where’s Merlin?” he demanded.
“Merlin is where you left him,” she said, and thought she detected a hint of a flinch before he schooled his expression into a calm mask.
“And where am I?” he asked.
“Avalon. You are to rest here, until your land calls you back.”
He looked away from her, across the water again.
“I was dying,” he said softly.
“You were,” Freya agreed.
“And now I’m dead?”
“No. You are born of magic and bound to the land, Arthur Pendragon. So long as she endures, so shall you.”
“Then I must go back,” he said, as if there were no question at all, and swung his legs down from the bier. She watched him stand and walk swiftly down to the water, where the boat that had borne him hence bobbed idly against the pier. There were no oars.
“Will this take me?” he asked.
“Only when you are summoned.”
“And when will that be?” There was a distinct note of frustration in his voice.
“That is not for me to say,” Freya told him. “When you are needed, you will know.”
On the far shore, Merlin raised his head from his arms, squinting into the mist.
“I must go back,” Arthur repeated, sounding almost plaintive now. His hands clutched at the side of the boat, and for all his grand armour and regal bearing, he looked like a lost little boy.
“You have earned your rest,” Freya said carefully, testing. “You do not wish to enjoy it?”
“I wish to - When I’m needed, you said.”
“Yes?”
“He needs me now,” Arthur said. It could have sounded arrogant, were it not so true, were his own answering need not written so clearly in his eyes and the twist of his mouth. He had been so serene when he arrived but now the whole of him was straining, pulling inexorably away from the tranquil torpor the isle meant for him. His entire being was like an arrow, quivering and aimed unerringly towards Merlin.
Freya hid a smile, heart softening to him.
“The boat will not bear you now, and I cannot force it to,” she told him. His face crumpled in dismay.
“I'm to be a prisoner here, then,” he said.
“He has given up so much for your sake, Arthur Pendragon,” she said. Needed to say it, needed him to hear it, even if it was rather late for such admonishments.
“I know,” Arthur said, swallowing heavily, and the weight of guilt and gratitude in his voice testified to the honesty of his words. “I know that, now. Please, my lady, I cannot stay here. I must return to him.”
“I would not see him endure further sorrow,” Freya said. “I cannot force the boat, but there is another way. The waters are mine to control. If you wish to return by your own strength, I will guide you between the worlds.”
He was bewildered for a moment, then lit up with understanding. Looked across the water, blanched a little at the distance, but said nothing, only began to shed his armour. He struggled with it, too eager to manage the awkward buckles that were normally left to other hands. Freya went to help him. He stilled, frowned a little.
“Do I know you?” he asked her, curious.
“I know you. And I know Merlin,” she said. He nodded, accepted it. With each piece she removed from him, she felt as though she were peeling away the prophesied king, the blind boy, the puppet of greater powers, to bare the man Merlin held so dear. She stripped him of his plate and mail, his gambeson, his boots and even his socks, leaving only his trousers and the thin white shirt that clung to him, soaked in sweat, torn and stained with blood where he had been wounded. He tugged it up, peered in wonder at the whole skin marred only by a fresh pink scar, then looked back to Freya.
“Thank you,” he said, solemn and utterly sincere.
“Go on then,” she said, waving him towards the water. “Hold him in your mind, and I’ll steer your course.”
He went, splashing into the shallows without hesitation. When he was chest deep, she called,
“Take good care of him, Arthur Pendragon.”
“I will,” he swore, and dove.
Freya let her human form dissolve, flowed back into the lake and turned it to her will. She buoyed him up and pushed him forward as he swam, through the water and the mists separating the isle from the mortal world. The isle’s magic tried to hold him, but its power was nothing against his determination; helming him proved far easier than Freya had anticipated.
She watched him emerge at the far shore, dripping and breathing hard and flushed with exertion, like a drowned god reborn. She watched Merlin gape, disbelieving, as his king came up out of the water and knelt before him.
They stared at one another, Arthur smiling almost shyly and Merlin rigid with shock. Arthur reached out, tenderly wiped the tears from Merlin’s wet cheeks with his thumb. Merlin caught Arthur’s hand with trembling fingers, turning it and pressing it as if he had never seen one before, as if he suspected a trick of the light that would at any moment vanish. Arthur let him, sitting still and patient. After a little while, Arthur hitched up his wet shirt, showed Merlin the scar. Raised his eyebrows and did a coaxing little pout that made Freya snicker to herself.
Merlin was still frozen, holding Arthur’s hand and staring at him. Freya could feel Merlin’s anguish shift into tentative hope, but still he did not speak.
And then water from Arthur’s sodden hair dripped into his eyes and he huffed, wiping at them with his free hand.
“Only you, Merlin, would put a king in a boat and neglect to provide him with a paddle,” Arthur muttered, infinitely fond.
“You were dead,” Merlin protested in a broken croak.
“Didn’t think you’d get rid of me that easily, did you?” Arthur quipped, and then turned serious. Moved closer, cupped Merlin’s cheek in his palm, tipped their foreheads together. Soothed Merlin’s shudder with gentle fingers in his hair.
“There was this island,” Arthur said, “and this woman, she said I was to rest there but…”
“Freya,” Merlin whispered, and she could feel his gratitude as strongly as she had felt his grief before. “But you came back?”
“I came back,” Arthur said, his voice gone a little unsteady now. “I could never leave you behind.”
Merlin let out a deep, shaky breath, and tipped his head to press his cheek against Arthur’s.
“I thought I had truly lost you this time,” he said. He curled his fingers in the open laces of Arthur’s shirt, thumb sliding along warm skin in an achingly intimate caress. Closed his eyes against the tears that sprang anew.
Arthur wound his arms around Merlin’s waist, cradled him in close.
“Shh, I’m here,” Arthur murmured, his voice gone thick and ragged too. “I’m here.”
He rocked Merlin like something sweet and immeasurably precious, held him with all the care that Freya could have wished for him and yet more. And so, content, she allowed herself to fade back into the timeless lull of the water, leaving them to one another’s ministrations.
*
Some fifty years later, after a full life in a truly golden age, Arthur's body failed again. He passed, as before, peacefully and wrapped in Merlin's arms. Merlin laid him in a boat, again, and though he feared it would be in vain this time, he laid a paddle in as well. And then he changed his own form - aged in appearance to match Arthur’s, but undying - into that of a tree, a tiny sapling standing watch at the water's edge. When the sapling had grown into a great towering thing, Arthur woke in Avalon as before, young once more, and as before, the boat would not bear him back, paddle or no. So he swam and Freya guided him, as before. At his touch, Merlin’s tree became Merlin again, just waking from his long slumber.
The third time, and every time thereafter, their friends may have thought it strange that Merlin should send Arthur to his rest clad only in a pair of drawers. But most knew better than to challenge him on such a matter.
Freya wondered sometimes, when they had grown old and Merlin began to hesitate as he passed the lake, or when Arthur already lay sleeping on his bier, whether the boat would ever deign to carry him from the isle. But then, she thought, perhaps it did not matter if it did or no. Every time without fail, Arthur returned to Merlin by his own strength as soon as he was able, and every time without fail, Merlin was waiting for him.
(not the) end
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Spoilers: 5x13 like woah.
Rating: G
Warnings: I think "post 5x13" just about covers it.
Length: ~1700 words
Summary: Freya watches.
Note: Oh you silly script writers, you left this VITALLY IMPORTANT bit out of the finale; here, I fixed it for you.
Arthur woke with a gasp of Merlin on his lips, and across the water, on the shore of the lake, Merlin stirred for the first time since he had collapsed there.
How much time had passed, hours or days, Freya could not say; she knew only that all the while, the very air had quivered with the immense power of Merlin’s grief. She had tried to reach out to him, early on, but he was too deep in his agony to respond, perhaps even to notice; for all intents and purposes, as insensate as his fallen king.
On the isle Arthur shifted, as though into an embrace, then jerked upright when he recognized that it was only cold stone beneath him. He looked around him wildly, and though it was impossible that his human eyes should see so far, his gaze went unerringly towards Merlin away on the shore.
Freya gathered the image of her body around her and appeared to him. She did not want to, particularly, could not help resenting him a little even knowing what he meant to Albion, to Merlin. Perhaps especially knowing what he meant to Merlin, and what his presence here was doing to Merlin. But she had her responsibilities, and she knew that Merlin would not want him neglected.
“Welcome, Once and Future King,” she said.
He startled, hand reaching for the hilt of the sword that was no longer at his hip.
“Who are you? Where’s Merlin?” he demanded.
“Merlin is where you left him,” she said, and thought she detected a hint of a flinch before he schooled his expression into a calm mask.
“And where am I?” he asked.
“Avalon. You are to rest here, until your land calls you back.”
He looked away from her, across the water again.
“I was dying,” he said softly.
“You were,” Freya agreed.
“And now I’m dead?”
“No. You are born of magic and bound to the land, Arthur Pendragon. So long as she endures, so shall you.”
“Then I must go back,” he said, as if there were no question at all, and swung his legs down from the bier. She watched him stand and walk swiftly down to the water, where the boat that had borne him hence bobbed idly against the pier. There were no oars.
“Will this take me?” he asked.
“Only when you are summoned.”
“And when will that be?” There was a distinct note of frustration in his voice.
“That is not for me to say,” Freya told him. “When you are needed, you will know.”
On the far shore, Merlin raised his head from his arms, squinting into the mist.
“I must go back,” Arthur repeated, sounding almost plaintive now. His hands clutched at the side of the boat, and for all his grand armour and regal bearing, he looked like a lost little boy.
“You have earned your rest,” Freya said carefully, testing. “You do not wish to enjoy it?”
“I wish to - When I’m needed, you said.”
“Yes?”
“He needs me now,” Arthur said. It could have sounded arrogant, were it not so true, were his own answering need not written so clearly in his eyes and the twist of his mouth. He had been so serene when he arrived but now the whole of him was straining, pulling inexorably away from the tranquil torpor the isle meant for him. His entire being was like an arrow, quivering and aimed unerringly towards Merlin.
Freya hid a smile, heart softening to him.
“The boat will not bear you now, and I cannot force it to,” she told him. His face crumpled in dismay.
“I'm to be a prisoner here, then,” he said.
“He has given up so much for your sake, Arthur Pendragon,” she said. Needed to say it, needed him to hear it, even if it was rather late for such admonishments.
“I know,” Arthur said, swallowing heavily, and the weight of guilt and gratitude in his voice testified to the honesty of his words. “I know that, now. Please, my lady, I cannot stay here. I must return to him.”
“I would not see him endure further sorrow,” Freya said. “I cannot force the boat, but there is another way. The waters are mine to control. If you wish to return by your own strength, I will guide you between the worlds.”
He was bewildered for a moment, then lit up with understanding. Looked across the water, blanched a little at the distance, but said nothing, only began to shed his armour. He struggled with it, too eager to manage the awkward buckles that were normally left to other hands. Freya went to help him. He stilled, frowned a little.
“Do I know you?” he asked her, curious.
“I know you. And I know Merlin,” she said. He nodded, accepted it. With each piece she removed from him, she felt as though she were peeling away the prophesied king, the blind boy, the puppet of greater powers, to bare the man Merlin held so dear. She stripped him of his plate and mail, his gambeson, his boots and even his socks, leaving only his trousers and the thin white shirt that clung to him, soaked in sweat, torn and stained with blood where he had been wounded. He tugged it up, peered in wonder at the whole skin marred only by a fresh pink scar, then looked back to Freya.
“Thank you,” he said, solemn and utterly sincere.
“Go on then,” she said, waving him towards the water. “Hold him in your mind, and I’ll steer your course.”
He went, splashing into the shallows without hesitation. When he was chest deep, she called,
“Take good care of him, Arthur Pendragon.”
“I will,” he swore, and dove.
Freya let her human form dissolve, flowed back into the lake and turned it to her will. She buoyed him up and pushed him forward as he swam, through the water and the mists separating the isle from the mortal world. The isle’s magic tried to hold him, but its power was nothing against his determination; helming him proved far easier than Freya had anticipated.
She watched him emerge at the far shore, dripping and breathing hard and flushed with exertion, like a drowned god reborn. She watched Merlin gape, disbelieving, as his king came up out of the water and knelt before him.
They stared at one another, Arthur smiling almost shyly and Merlin rigid with shock. Arthur reached out, tenderly wiped the tears from Merlin’s wet cheeks with his thumb. Merlin caught Arthur’s hand with trembling fingers, turning it and pressing it as if he had never seen one before, as if he suspected a trick of the light that would at any moment vanish. Arthur let him, sitting still and patient. After a little while, Arthur hitched up his wet shirt, showed Merlin the scar. Raised his eyebrows and did a coaxing little pout that made Freya snicker to herself.
Merlin was still frozen, holding Arthur’s hand and staring at him. Freya could feel Merlin’s anguish shift into tentative hope, but still he did not speak.
And then water from Arthur’s sodden hair dripped into his eyes and he huffed, wiping at them with his free hand.
“Only you, Merlin, would put a king in a boat and neglect to provide him with a paddle,” Arthur muttered, infinitely fond.
“You were dead,” Merlin protested in a broken croak.
“Didn’t think you’d get rid of me that easily, did you?” Arthur quipped, and then turned serious. Moved closer, cupped Merlin’s cheek in his palm, tipped their foreheads together. Soothed Merlin’s shudder with gentle fingers in his hair.
“There was this island,” Arthur said, “and this woman, she said I was to rest there but…”
“Freya,” Merlin whispered, and she could feel his gratitude as strongly as she had felt his grief before. “But you came back?”
“I came back,” Arthur said, his voice gone a little unsteady now. “I could never leave you behind.”
Merlin let out a deep, shaky breath, and tipped his head to press his cheek against Arthur’s.
“I thought I had truly lost you this time,” he said. He curled his fingers in the open laces of Arthur’s shirt, thumb sliding along warm skin in an achingly intimate caress. Closed his eyes against the tears that sprang anew.
Arthur wound his arms around Merlin’s waist, cradled him in close.
“Shh, I’m here,” Arthur murmured, his voice gone thick and ragged too. “I’m here.”
He rocked Merlin like something sweet and immeasurably precious, held him with all the care that Freya could have wished for him and yet more. And so, content, she allowed herself to fade back into the timeless lull of the water, leaving them to one another’s ministrations.
*
Some fifty years later, after a full life in a truly golden age, Arthur's body failed again. He passed, as before, peacefully and wrapped in Merlin's arms. Merlin laid him in a boat, again, and though he feared it would be in vain this time, he laid a paddle in as well. And then he changed his own form - aged in appearance to match Arthur’s, but undying - into that of a tree, a tiny sapling standing watch at the water's edge. When the sapling had grown into a great towering thing, Arthur woke in Avalon as before, young once more, and as before, the boat would not bear him back, paddle or no. So he swam and Freya guided him, as before. At his touch, Merlin’s tree became Merlin again, just waking from his long slumber.
The third time, and every time thereafter, their friends may have thought it strange that Merlin should send Arthur to his rest clad only in a pair of drawers. But most knew better than to challenge him on such a matter.
Freya wondered sometimes, when they had grown old and Merlin began to hesitate as he passed the lake, or when Arthur already lay sleeping on his bier, whether the boat would ever deign to carry him from the isle. But then, she thought, perhaps it did not matter if it did or no. Every time without fail, Arthur returned to Merlin by his own strength as soon as he was able, and every time without fail, Merlin was waiting for him.
(not the) end