Rites of Spring, Arthur/Merlin fic
Merlin dies in the spring, just as the snow is receding from the land.
Arthur replays the moment in his mind for weeks afterward, wounding his heart with the memory. Merlin’s hand raised, eyes golden like sunfire and full of love. The scent of ozone and spring earth as the witch’s power meets with Merlin’s and pushes him down.
Merlin’s voice, breathing Arthur like a benediction, then the sound of a thousand mirrors shattering and light like fire that blinds him.
Merlin, gone.
~~
They give up trying to change Arthur’s mood by the last frost. Arthur pretends not to see how relieved they are whenever he leaves a room.
It doesn’t matter.
His kingdom feels empty, like a toy castle full of little straw people. No life, no love - one angry spark away from going up in flames. Some days he wishes it would, if only so he could cast aside the mantle of responsibility that sits hard inside him like a dam, holding back the grief he is not allowed to drown himself in.
On those days, he rides out to the forest where he once hunted with Merlin. The trees whisper and the birds sing sad questions (Where is he? Where is he? Who are you, without him?) and Arthur sits in the dappled sunlight and digs his fingers into the loamy earth, trying to cry.
The spring air smells like Merlin’s skin, sun-warmed and piney.
~~
Sometimes Arthur gathers herbs for Gaius.
Merlin would laugh, but Arthur knows how it pains the old physician to ask another boy to do it, and it brings Arthur some peace - the simple act of bending and gathering, moving between the warming sky and the renewed earth.
Gaius sends him out to fetch comfrey and thyme on the first true day of summer. The sun is a golden coin in the sky, coaxing flowers from the fields and children from their mothers’ aprons. Arthur walks down through meadows full of humming insects and flitting sparrows, dragging his downturned palms over the silky tops of wild grasses. The unruly sweep against his fingers feels like Merlin’s hair, like a hundred little stolen moments together, Arthur’s hands cupped against Merlin’s skull or fingers running through silky strands. Merlin’s face, pressed to Arthur’s neck. The gentle little curl of dark locks against a pale neck.
Arthur stops, hands poised over the grass as the breeze teases it against his skin, wanting to clutch it and never let go. Knowing he cannot.
The wind shifts, and the clean scent of pine whispers past his face. Arthur closes his eyes and breathes in, almost believing that Merlin will be there when he opens his eyes, grinning and haloed in summer light.
~~
In the fall, bandits roam the woods to the east of Camelot.
Arthur loses two knights fighting them and takes a strong blow to head. Light explodes behind his eyes and he hears in his memory the sound of breaking glass, the sound of someone irreplaceable being torn from his life.
When he comes to, he is laid out on the ground with wild grass under his palm and the sharp, fresh scent of earth in his nose.
Merlin, he thinks, the wounded place inside him drawing in on itself like a closing flower. He thinks maybe he’s dying. He thinks maybe he wants to. Merlin, Merlin, please…
Above him the wind twists the leaves and they flutter in warm shades of gold, smooth pieces of blue sky flashing in between. Blue and gold. Merlin’s eyes, full of love.
Arthur sucks in a breath and decides not to die. A strange hope alights in his heart, a tight bud of faith even as all around him leaves fall from the trees like prayers.
~~
Winter comes, and Arthur waits.
There is a stillness in him now, like the pause between breaths or the calm surface of a lake. He is poised between grief and a dangerous hope, waiting to see which way the winds will push him. Waiting to see if he will be a king, or a broken man beneath a crown.
The day before the Yuletide it snows, a thick, heavy blanket that hushes the castle and bathes Camelot in white. Arthur stands in the castle gardens with numb fingers and toes, watching his breath gust out in ephemeral clouds.
Waiting.
The sun peeks out from behind a low gray cloud and glints off the snow. A blood red cardinal glides through the naked braches of the trees, a flash of color over a canvas of sparkling white. A stupid red neckerchief and a wide, bright smile.
Arthur smiles back.
~~
Spring whispers in like a promise.
One year to the day, and Arthur walks alone to the place where Merlin died. The long quiet of winter is ending, the earth shifting and stretching as she wakes from a long, cold sleep. Everything is poised and waiting.
Arthur can wait no more.
There is a single red crocus unfurling from the thawed soil, a bright slip of green and crimson. Arthur kneels and touches the petals with one gentle finger and electricity races up his arm, every cell in his body singing with memory.
Behind him someone breathes in, and Arthur turns, knowing.
“Arthur,” Merlin sighs. He is paler, thinner. Naked and trembling, eyes wide like the expansive sky above them.
“Merlin,” Arthur says, and steps forward to gather Merlin to him. Merlin leans against him, reedy arms curling around Arthur’s back, wind-chilled head coming to rest on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur presses their bodies carefully together and buries his face against Merlin’s neck.
The earthy scent of pine, smooth hair like wild grass under his cheek. Arthur’s heart soars like a cardinal through snow, bright and exuberant.
“Was I gone?” Merlin asks against his shirt.
Arthur presses a soft kiss to the skin behind Merlin’s ear, tasting the salt of his own tears, and whispers:
“Not even for a moment.”
~FIN~
Arthur replays the moment in his mind for weeks afterward, wounding his heart with the memory. Merlin’s hand raised, eyes golden like sunfire and full of love. The scent of ozone and spring earth as the witch’s power meets with Merlin’s and pushes him down.
Merlin’s voice, breathing Arthur like a benediction, then the sound of a thousand mirrors shattering and light like fire that blinds him.
Merlin, gone.
~~
They give up trying to change Arthur’s mood by the last frost. Arthur pretends not to see how relieved they are whenever he leaves a room.
It doesn’t matter.
His kingdom feels empty, like a toy castle full of little straw people. No life, no love - one angry spark away from going up in flames. Some days he wishes it would, if only so he could cast aside the mantle of responsibility that sits hard inside him like a dam, holding back the grief he is not allowed to drown himself in.
On those days, he rides out to the forest where he once hunted with Merlin. The trees whisper and the birds sing sad questions (Where is he? Where is he? Who are you, without him?) and Arthur sits in the dappled sunlight and digs his fingers into the loamy earth, trying to cry.
The spring air smells like Merlin’s skin, sun-warmed and piney.
~~
Sometimes Arthur gathers herbs for Gaius.
Merlin would laugh, but Arthur knows how it pains the old physician to ask another boy to do it, and it brings Arthur some peace - the simple act of bending and gathering, moving between the warming sky and the renewed earth.
Gaius sends him out to fetch comfrey and thyme on the first true day of summer. The sun is a golden coin in the sky, coaxing flowers from the fields and children from their mothers’ aprons. Arthur walks down through meadows full of humming insects and flitting sparrows, dragging his downturned palms over the silky tops of wild grasses. The unruly sweep against his fingers feels like Merlin’s hair, like a hundred little stolen moments together, Arthur’s hands cupped against Merlin’s skull or fingers running through silky strands. Merlin’s face, pressed to Arthur’s neck. The gentle little curl of dark locks against a pale neck.
Arthur stops, hands poised over the grass as the breeze teases it against his skin, wanting to clutch it and never let go. Knowing he cannot.
The wind shifts, and the clean scent of pine whispers past his face. Arthur closes his eyes and breathes in, almost believing that Merlin will be there when he opens his eyes, grinning and haloed in summer light.
~~
In the fall, bandits roam the woods to the east of Camelot.
Arthur loses two knights fighting them and takes a strong blow to head. Light explodes behind his eyes and he hears in his memory the sound of breaking glass, the sound of someone irreplaceable being torn from his life.
When he comes to, he is laid out on the ground with wild grass under his palm and the sharp, fresh scent of earth in his nose.
Merlin, he thinks, the wounded place inside him drawing in on itself like a closing flower. He thinks maybe he’s dying. He thinks maybe he wants to. Merlin, Merlin, please…
Above him the wind twists the leaves and they flutter in warm shades of gold, smooth pieces of blue sky flashing in between. Blue and gold. Merlin’s eyes, full of love.
Arthur sucks in a breath and decides not to die. A strange hope alights in his heart, a tight bud of faith even as all around him leaves fall from the trees like prayers.
~~
Winter comes, and Arthur waits.
There is a stillness in him now, like the pause between breaths or the calm surface of a lake. He is poised between grief and a dangerous hope, waiting to see which way the winds will push him. Waiting to see if he will be a king, or a broken man beneath a crown.
The day before the Yuletide it snows, a thick, heavy blanket that hushes the castle and bathes Camelot in white. Arthur stands in the castle gardens with numb fingers and toes, watching his breath gust out in ephemeral clouds.
Waiting.
The sun peeks out from behind a low gray cloud and glints off the snow. A blood red cardinal glides through the naked braches of the trees, a flash of color over a canvas of sparkling white. A stupid red neckerchief and a wide, bright smile.
Arthur smiles back.
~~
Spring whispers in like a promise.
One year to the day, and Arthur walks alone to the place where Merlin died. The long quiet of winter is ending, the earth shifting and stretching as she wakes from a long, cold sleep. Everything is poised and waiting.
Arthur can wait no more.
There is a single red crocus unfurling from the thawed soil, a bright slip of green and crimson. Arthur kneels and touches the petals with one gentle finger and electricity races up his arm, every cell in his body singing with memory.
Behind him someone breathes in, and Arthur turns, knowing.
“Arthur,” Merlin sighs. He is paler, thinner. Naked and trembling, eyes wide like the expansive sky above them.
“Merlin,” Arthur says, and steps forward to gather Merlin to him. Merlin leans against him, reedy arms curling around Arthur’s back, wind-chilled head coming to rest on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur presses their bodies carefully together and buries his face against Merlin’s neck.
The earthy scent of pine, smooth hair like wild grass under his cheek. Arthur’s heart soars like a cardinal through snow, bright and exuberant.
“Was I gone?” Merlin asks against his shirt.
Arthur presses a soft kiss to the skin behind Merlin’s ear, tasting the salt of his own tears, and whispers:
“Not even for a moment.”
~FIN~