The Times tried our Souls...
Title: The times tried our souls... and through the darkness we overcame.
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin (can be seen as pre-slash or real, indepth epic bromance)
Rating: R (pretty tame but mentions of torture)
Wordcount: 8428 (whole thing)
Summary: a fill for this prompt at kinkme_merlin: Merlin goes through a lot of trauma and has gotten very used to hiding it, moving on (or at least appearing to), and coping silently and without anyone noticing, because most of the time no one can know something happened. One day something traumatic happens to him, which everyone knows about, and everyone is waiting for Merlin to snap, only for him to...not. Arthur is caught between worried and suspicious, and sets about to get to the bottom of this.
Now with AO3 link
The times tried our Souls….
When he was perhaps six or seven the boys in the village wouldn’t play with him. They called him ‘Bastard’ and pushed him into a tree.
They left him sniffling, slumped against the trunk as they ran off laughing.
His mother found him a while later, still under that same tree, tear tracks down his face and a large graze on one cheek.
She hugged him tight and led him back to their home where she gently cleaned him up, wrapped him in a blanket, and sang him to sleep.
*
When he had seen fourteen summers he was no longer small and scrawny, but tall and gangly. His arms and legs seemed to have been stretched, making even the smallest tasks, like walking, seem alike balancing on a tightrope.
Will found this endlessly amusing, and he was still chuckling at Merlin going face down into a patch of mud when they came back to the village, to see a gaggle of women around Merlin's front door.
“It’s not natural Hunith!” one of the women had barked, a murmur of agreement passed through the group.
When Merlin caught his mother’s fierce eyes he followed the unspoken command and left Wills side, retreating to the safety of their hut.
Merlin shut his ears against the angry words outside and waited for his mother to return.
She was almost vibrating with anger when she did, pacing the small hut back and forth.
“I’m sorry.” Merlin whispered, for many things, for being different, for causing his mother more work than she already had.
The anger in her shoulders melted away and she knelt on the floor by Merlin's feet. “Oh my boy.” She cupped his cheek, “You have nothing to be sorry for. Just… you must be more careful.”
“I will mother.”
That night he made his mother dinner and didn’t let her lift a finger in cleaning. Once they had eaten he conjured a butterfly from nothing and viewed in delight at his mother’s bright smile.
*
Merlin’s first day in Camelot was also the first day he’d ever seen anyone beheaded before.
The head rolled away from the body, its eyes unseeingly open. When it finished its journey it stopped, facing Merlin, the eyes boring into him in seeming condemnation. The body lay limp, blood still squirting from the neck. He could smell the metallic tang from where he stood; he didn’t know how the people near the front could stand it.
His stomach rolled in protest of his sense’s and Merlin’s meagre lunch was about to make a reappearance when a harsh wind swept through a crowd and all he could see was a grieving mother.
*
Drinking poison wasn’t what they made it out to be in fairy tales.
At first there was blissful darkness, a heaviness that settled in his chest making its rise and fall seem like the most arduous of tests.
But then the fire.
It burned through him, ravaging his body in heat and pain but the only release he could find for his exhausted body was a small whimper.
It ripped through him until there was seemingly nothing left. Just pain, fire, and the feeling that something was very wrong.
Afterwards his aching body craved sleep, craved rest. But if closed his eyes he feared he would be dragged back to that place, where everything burned and withered. So he sat on the small bench, the blanket around his shoulder his only comfort and missed his mother with an aching.
When Arthur visited he dredged up a smile that felt totally fake, no one seemed to notice.
*
Will died.
Merlin stood in front of his best friends burning pyre.
Everyone else had gone. Only he remained. Arthur’s admonishment in the back of his mind.
‘You know it’s dangerous’
He wanted to curl up and stay here. In this quiet village where nothing happened. Where he had no destiny, he was the Bastard child of a peasant women, worrying about whether the next harvest would be fruitful.
But his mother’s voice rang true and loud through the fog of grief.
‘He needs you’
He turned from the pyre and began to pack the prince’s bags for their trip back to Camelot.
*
Even after all that had happened; after Arthur, his mother, Gaius, were all resting peacefully asleep. No threat of untimely demise hanging above their heads. Merlin sat, his knees pulled up to his chest which still stung from Nimeh’s blast, staring at his hands.
They still shook. These hands that had killed, that had taken a life. They felt foreign to him. It was easier to think that than to think of the pure rage and hatred that had soared through his veins, through his heart.
Calling lightening from the sky had seemed easy, child’s play, as he swatted an annoying gnat out of existence.
As much as he could argue the logic: that he had to do it, he was saving innocent people’s lives, his mother, Gaius, it still came down to one thing.
He had taken someone’s life in a fit of rage. He could never take that back. He was a murderer.
Arthur called for him in the morning and he clenched his hands, tried to wash the lack of sleep off his face and went to his master’s side.
*
She had been beautiful, and innocent, and pure. Everything Merlin wished he could be.
And when she smiled at him, he felt like he was good enough.
Then Arthur killed her.
He shoved a sword into her flesh, through her muscles and organs, and she ceased to be.
The lake was as beautiful and tranquil as she had been.
He shed tears by her watery grave, not only for an innocent life lost, but for that dream that he knew could never be.
That wasn’t his destiny.
The line of boots and polishing kit that sat in Arthur’s chamber might as well have been a direct order from the man himself.
Merlin huffed, and lost himself in the monotony.
*
A Serkerett sting is revered as one of the most painful ways to go.
The stinger itself is sharp but jagged. Tearing your flesh on its exit.
And the poison devours you from the inside out. It eats through your flesh and bone, leaving an indent at the entry point. Once it enters your blood it boils, ravaging your insides until they are pulverised.
When Arthur asked where he had been, Merlin paused, trying to come up with the words to describe the feeling of been eaten from the inside out, but he couldn’t quite get it right.
He settled for a small shrug and “I was dying.”
*
Flashes and images soared through his head. Searing into his retinas. He just wanted them to stop, stop! But everywhere he turned there were more.
It feels like someone is shoving sand into your ears. There’s just no room for any more but still it keeps on coming, tearing through everything else.
As Merlin sat on the rock staring into nothing he could still see it all in the back of his mind, one after the other and the other.
Something soft hit the side of his head and he remembered where he was. He had to get Arthur back to Camelot. He could worry about everything once the Prince was tucked safely in bed.
*
It wasn’t until he had helped drag Lancelot away from the crumbling hall that he felt the pain. Be it adrenaline, or magic, he didn’t know, but the sharpness and suddenness brought him to his knees.
He was vaguely aware of a frantic Gaius calling his name, but all he could hear was his blood rushing through his ears.
Later, he blinked his eyes open to see Lancelot propped on a stool next to him. He glanced down at the bandages binding his chest and flicked a glance over to the Knight watching him with a frown.
“Two cracked ribs,” Lancelot announced, “a dislocated shoulder and twenty stitches from glass cuts.”
“Huh.” Merlin replied. That list of injuries was impressive even for him, but nothing life threatening, just painful. He started to push himself gently from the bed.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the knight scolded, hobbling up from his own perch, his leg wrapped tightly in bandages. “You are to rest until Gaius says you are fit.”
“I’ve got things to do Lancelot.” Merlin grunted, finally reaching vertical, “I can rest when I am dead.”
“That’s not funny!” the Knight snapped.
Merlin looked into Lancelot’s furious eyes, he allowed himself that moment to catalogue the expression, he had never seen the calm man this agitated before.
He sent the knight an apologetic look before walking as quickly as he could from the chambers.
*
When Arthur was fed and asleep and the knights all had rooms to rest in, when he had searched every inch of the castle for Morgana and Morgause, and the cup, helped to clear a small part of the debris and helped in the infirmary, Gaius’ unimpressed stare on the back of his neck the whole time (when his ribs and shoulder protested too much for him to continue moving); Merlin returned to his Chambers.
Lancelot was asleep now in the patient’s bed. Merlin smiled and draped the extra blanket across the Knights sleeping form.
Merlin swallowed one of Gaius’ tonic’s in one, hoping it eased the constant pain in his side and back before falling into a fitful sleep.
*
One would think that coldness was numbing.
It wasn’t
The pain was sharp and it penetrated everywhere, from his fingers to his heart and back again. It was relentless, like being stung by thousands of needles, one after the other.
The pain was only surpassed by the feeling of warmth returning to his skin.
It burnt.
Every friendly pat, every comforting arm. They were like white hot brands against his flesh that his muscles were too slow to pull away from.
When he woke beside a stream, the haze suddenly gone form the world, he could still feel the phantom pain, still remember the fear of being helpless when his limbs wouldn’t obey.
He lay gathering himself for a moment before he rolled his head to see a shoulder draped in Pendragon red. Lancelot…
“Arthur!” Merlin gasped sitting upright too quickly. His brain seemed to protest by banging against his skull.
When the white dots cleared he looked at the sleeping knights face, he looked awful. Noble idiot that he was, he probably rode right through till the horses could no longer go on.
Breakfast. Merlin thought. Then he would go save the other noble idiot from himself.
... and through the darkness, we overcame (Next Part).
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin (can be seen as pre-slash or real, indepth epic bromance)
Rating: R (pretty tame but mentions of torture)
Wordcount: 8428 (whole thing)
Summary: a fill for this prompt at kinkme_merlin: Merlin goes through a lot of trauma and has gotten very used to hiding it, moving on (or at least appearing to), and coping silently and without anyone noticing, because most of the time no one can know something happened. One day something traumatic happens to him, which everyone knows about, and everyone is waiting for Merlin to snap, only for him to...not. Arthur is caught between worried and suspicious, and sets about to get to the bottom of this.
Now with AO3 link
The times tried our Souls….
When he was perhaps six or seven the boys in the village wouldn’t play with him. They called him ‘Bastard’ and pushed him into a tree.
They left him sniffling, slumped against the trunk as they ran off laughing.
His mother found him a while later, still under that same tree, tear tracks down his face and a large graze on one cheek.
She hugged him tight and led him back to their home where she gently cleaned him up, wrapped him in a blanket, and sang him to sleep.
*
When he had seen fourteen summers he was no longer small and scrawny, but tall and gangly. His arms and legs seemed to have been stretched, making even the smallest tasks, like walking, seem alike balancing on a tightrope.
Will found this endlessly amusing, and he was still chuckling at Merlin going face down into a patch of mud when they came back to the village, to see a gaggle of women around Merlin's front door.
“It’s not natural Hunith!” one of the women had barked, a murmur of agreement passed through the group.
When Merlin caught his mother’s fierce eyes he followed the unspoken command and left Wills side, retreating to the safety of their hut.
Merlin shut his ears against the angry words outside and waited for his mother to return.
She was almost vibrating with anger when she did, pacing the small hut back and forth.
“I’m sorry.” Merlin whispered, for many things, for being different, for causing his mother more work than she already had.
The anger in her shoulders melted away and she knelt on the floor by Merlin's feet. “Oh my boy.” She cupped his cheek, “You have nothing to be sorry for. Just… you must be more careful.”
“I will mother.”
That night he made his mother dinner and didn’t let her lift a finger in cleaning. Once they had eaten he conjured a butterfly from nothing and viewed in delight at his mother’s bright smile.
*
Merlin’s first day in Camelot was also the first day he’d ever seen anyone beheaded before.
The head rolled away from the body, its eyes unseeingly open. When it finished its journey it stopped, facing Merlin, the eyes boring into him in seeming condemnation. The body lay limp, blood still squirting from the neck. He could smell the metallic tang from where he stood; he didn’t know how the people near the front could stand it.
His stomach rolled in protest of his sense’s and Merlin’s meagre lunch was about to make a reappearance when a harsh wind swept through a crowd and all he could see was a grieving mother.
*
Drinking poison wasn’t what they made it out to be in fairy tales.
At first there was blissful darkness, a heaviness that settled in his chest making its rise and fall seem like the most arduous of tests.
But then the fire.
It burned through him, ravaging his body in heat and pain but the only release he could find for his exhausted body was a small whimper.
It ripped through him until there was seemingly nothing left. Just pain, fire, and the feeling that something was very wrong.
Afterwards his aching body craved sleep, craved rest. But if closed his eyes he feared he would be dragged back to that place, where everything burned and withered. So he sat on the small bench, the blanket around his shoulder his only comfort and missed his mother with an aching.
When Arthur visited he dredged up a smile that felt totally fake, no one seemed to notice.
*
Will died.
Merlin stood in front of his best friends burning pyre.
Everyone else had gone. Only he remained. Arthur’s admonishment in the back of his mind.
‘You know it’s dangerous’
He wanted to curl up and stay here. In this quiet village where nothing happened. Where he had no destiny, he was the Bastard child of a peasant women, worrying about whether the next harvest would be fruitful.
But his mother’s voice rang true and loud through the fog of grief.
‘He needs you’
He turned from the pyre and began to pack the prince’s bags for their trip back to Camelot.
*
Even after all that had happened; after Arthur, his mother, Gaius, were all resting peacefully asleep. No threat of untimely demise hanging above their heads. Merlin sat, his knees pulled up to his chest which still stung from Nimeh’s blast, staring at his hands.
They still shook. These hands that had killed, that had taken a life. They felt foreign to him. It was easier to think that than to think of the pure rage and hatred that had soared through his veins, through his heart.
Calling lightening from the sky had seemed easy, child’s play, as he swatted an annoying gnat out of existence.
As much as he could argue the logic: that he had to do it, he was saving innocent people’s lives, his mother, Gaius, it still came down to one thing.
He had taken someone’s life in a fit of rage. He could never take that back. He was a murderer.
Arthur called for him in the morning and he clenched his hands, tried to wash the lack of sleep off his face and went to his master’s side.
*
She had been beautiful, and innocent, and pure. Everything Merlin wished he could be.
And when she smiled at him, he felt like he was good enough.
Then Arthur killed her.
He shoved a sword into her flesh, through her muscles and organs, and she ceased to be.
The lake was as beautiful and tranquil as she had been.
He shed tears by her watery grave, not only for an innocent life lost, but for that dream that he knew could never be.
That wasn’t his destiny.
The line of boots and polishing kit that sat in Arthur’s chamber might as well have been a direct order from the man himself.
Merlin huffed, and lost himself in the monotony.
*
A Serkerett sting is revered as one of the most painful ways to go.
The stinger itself is sharp but jagged. Tearing your flesh on its exit.
And the poison devours you from the inside out. It eats through your flesh and bone, leaving an indent at the entry point. Once it enters your blood it boils, ravaging your insides until they are pulverised.
When Arthur asked where he had been, Merlin paused, trying to come up with the words to describe the feeling of been eaten from the inside out, but he couldn’t quite get it right.
He settled for a small shrug and “I was dying.”
*
Flashes and images soared through his head. Searing into his retinas. He just wanted them to stop, stop! But everywhere he turned there were more.
It feels like someone is shoving sand into your ears. There’s just no room for any more but still it keeps on coming, tearing through everything else.
As Merlin sat on the rock staring into nothing he could still see it all in the back of his mind, one after the other and the other.
Something soft hit the side of his head and he remembered where he was. He had to get Arthur back to Camelot. He could worry about everything once the Prince was tucked safely in bed.
*
It wasn’t until he had helped drag Lancelot away from the crumbling hall that he felt the pain. Be it adrenaline, or magic, he didn’t know, but the sharpness and suddenness brought him to his knees.
He was vaguely aware of a frantic Gaius calling his name, but all he could hear was his blood rushing through his ears.
Later, he blinked his eyes open to see Lancelot propped on a stool next to him. He glanced down at the bandages binding his chest and flicked a glance over to the Knight watching him with a frown.
“Two cracked ribs,” Lancelot announced, “a dislocated shoulder and twenty stitches from glass cuts.”
“Huh.” Merlin replied. That list of injuries was impressive even for him, but nothing life threatening, just painful. He started to push himself gently from the bed.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the knight scolded, hobbling up from his own perch, his leg wrapped tightly in bandages. “You are to rest until Gaius says you are fit.”
“I’ve got things to do Lancelot.” Merlin grunted, finally reaching vertical, “I can rest when I am dead.”
“That’s not funny!” the Knight snapped.
Merlin looked into Lancelot’s furious eyes, he allowed himself that moment to catalogue the expression, he had never seen the calm man this agitated before.
He sent the knight an apologetic look before walking as quickly as he could from the chambers.
*
When Arthur was fed and asleep and the knights all had rooms to rest in, when he had searched every inch of the castle for Morgana and Morgause, and the cup, helped to clear a small part of the debris and helped in the infirmary, Gaius’ unimpressed stare on the back of his neck the whole time (when his ribs and shoulder protested too much for him to continue moving); Merlin returned to his Chambers.
Lancelot was asleep now in the patient’s bed. Merlin smiled and draped the extra blanket across the Knights sleeping form.
Merlin swallowed one of Gaius’ tonic’s in one, hoping it eased the constant pain in his side and back before falling into a fitful sleep.
*
One would think that coldness was numbing.
It wasn’t
The pain was sharp and it penetrated everywhere, from his fingers to his heart and back again. It was relentless, like being stung by thousands of needles, one after the other.
The pain was only surpassed by the feeling of warmth returning to his skin.
It burnt.
Every friendly pat, every comforting arm. They were like white hot brands against his flesh that his muscles were too slow to pull away from.
When he woke beside a stream, the haze suddenly gone form the world, he could still feel the phantom pain, still remember the fear of being helpless when his limbs wouldn’t obey.
He lay gathering himself for a moment before he rolled his head to see a shoulder draped in Pendragon red. Lancelot…
“Arthur!” Merlin gasped sitting upright too quickly. His brain seemed to protest by banging against his skull.
When the white dots cleared he looked at the sleeping knights face, he looked awful. Noble idiot that he was, he probably rode right through till the horses could no longer go on.
Breakfast. Merlin thought. Then he would go save the other noble idiot from himself.
... and through the darkness, we overcame (Next Part).