Fanfic | Merlin: Unnoticed History
Title: Unnoticed History
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: ~1800
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Some years after the final battle of the Great King, an old man walking a familiar road is joined by a young man, and destiny whispers into their ears all the things they hope to hear.
Note: Companion to Noticed History
Unnoticed History
There is an old man that walks this road. Travelers watch him in curiosity, taking in the sight of his wrinkled hand on his cane, and wonder at the blue of his eyes. Soon, they begin to whisper stories.
The old man becomes a prince searching for his dead bride, a father of lost children, a son of the sprit that lives in the road, a criminal punished for his crimes.
He walks and walks the road from Ealdor to Camelot, from Camelot to Ealdor. (The road bridges the gap between the homes of two hearts tied together, two souls that share a destiny, so says the people old and ancient with families who have a habit of telling stories in prose.) He wanders off the road twice a year - once to stare at a desolate lake, another to visit the site where their greatest king died. Although they are the same place, the people like to exaggerate his stories and whisper to each other that even the old man pays his respect for their late King That Will Come Again.
He is left alone, and no one speaks to him. Except once, someone does - a boy, young and barely come of age with a bright laugh and a smile that causes his eyes to crinkle and the girls to swoon.
It happens on a near winter day where the trees are not quite dead and the sky is not yet asleep and the road is less treaded on than usual. The boy introduces himself as Gwydion, and another history is written that day. It is not grand and glorious, but rather soft and sweet, colored with all the words of destiny whispered in time.
“They say you always walk this way,” Gwydion started, not entirely without tact. “Is there a reason?” The old man spared him only one glance and did not stop walking, but then he seemed to have changed his mind and turned to give him a look of contemplation. Gwydion smiled openly, a bit too cheekily, and the old man sighed with long-suffering.
“I am waiting,” the old man answered at last. This time the old man really did walk away, clearly expecting that to be the end of the conversation, but Gwydion trailed after him like the curious boy he was.
He fell into step with the old man easily, leaves crunching under his feet. “Waiting? Waiting for what?” And perhaps he was being far more curious than what was decent, but the old man was famous around these parts and no one knew where he came from or what his purpose was - and there were three generations worth of stories about this old man, and he was always described as being old, never young, never changing. An old man who walked to and fro without bothering anyone, the stories always started.
The old man’s cane beat against the scattered stones in the road, striking them in a rhythm bold and familiar. Gwydion thought it sounded like music, or the drum beats of war. “I am waiting,” the old man repeated, looking up toward the thin, grey sky. “I am waiting for someone who will come again.”
Gwydion looked up at the sky, trying to catch a glimpse of what had captivated the old man, but all he saw was the sun covered by grey clouds and the very top of trees. When he looked back down, the old man was already far ahead. Letting out a noise of surprise, he quickly scrambled back to the old man’s side. “Is it a woman you’re waiting for?”
The old man laughed suddenly, a sound that was deep and strong, far stronger than what his old lungs should have allowed. Gwydion frowned and leaned forward, eyes squinting to better take in the visage of the old man. There were far less wrinkles on that old face than he had thought there were.
“Not a woman,” the old man answered with a quirk of his lips that suggested he was lost in old memories and jokes. “But I suppose ...,” he trailed off.
“What?”
The old man shook his head. “Nothing, nothing.”
But Gwydion was not as daft as the people liked to say he was, he heard: everything, always everything.
They walked in silence for a few minutes, taking in the sound of horses and carts and people shouting and birds distantly singing, “Winter, it is winter coming. Fly away, fly away.”
It was when they passed an old lady with a cart filled with magic charms that the old man said, “Once, some time ago, a dragon-descendent walked this very road to Camelot, following the footsteps of his destiny.” Then his voice dropped to a whisper, “He was the very last of the dragon-descendents, after a time.”
Gwydion felt the sadness and regret in those words. “There always must be a last of something,” he murmured sadly. And then the words caught up to him and finally made sense in his mind. He gaped, openly, for a long few seconds. “Dragons?” he repeated with just a hint of incredulity.
The old man chuckled. “Yes, dragons. It was rather difficult to believe, I suppose, what with the cunning of dragons and the brilliant kindness of this boy.” A silence stretched, one that seemed untouchable, expectant. “He was the warlock the King of Albion returned magic to land for.”
He gasped, the cold air stinging the back of his throat. “You knew them?” The king and his warlock were legends, absolute in their story of justice and peace.
“Yes … I suppose you could say that I knew them. Don’t be so surprised when you know little of history,” the old man added when he saw the look of pure hero worship on his face.
Gwydion blushed, a sheepish look forming on his face. “It’s just, there’s no magic left. The king was too late to save magic, so it’s all gone now. And, you’re supposed to be really old, like really, really old, so … I thought you might be able to do magic?” It all came out in a waterfall of words, hesitantly broken apart as he stuttered and stammered his way through them.
There was silence, again, between them; a stronger silence that ate at him. The old man didn’t seem to be making a move to speak either, and Gwydion was not sure he could after that last horrible spew of words.
“I can’t.”
He blinked, shocked at the sudden words and not understanding them for a moment. Then, when he finally pieced his thoughts back together, he stared at the old man in disappointment - and then in shock. He was sure that the old man - who was, by the way, no longer old - had long white hair and wrinkly skin and everything that defined someone who was old. And yet, the man before him was nothing like that. His skin was no longer wrinkled at all but for the lines around his mouth from smiling and the creases at the corner of his eyes, his hair had color now and -
Gwydion blushed. He was handsome, very handsome.
“I can’t do magic, and I’m very sorry to disappoint,” the man said as he slung an arm around his shoulders, smiling amusedly when he saw Gwydion further blush. The man was warm, and Gwydion would swear to anyone that he fit against the man’s side like his other half.
“But tell me, Gwydion, do you ever dream of magic?”
He had never heard anyone say his name like that.
“Do you dream of glowing lights and an open sea that rages and stills by your command?”
For a moment, Gwydion was terrified at the imagery, at the thought of someone else knowing what was in his mind, but the man looked at him with such intensity that he forgot all else.
“Tell me, what do you think of this place?” the man asked, suddenly too close and too warm and too everything and Gwydion just wanted to get away.
A strong hand held him firmly in place when he moved away. All he wanted was a story, something to entertain him and take away his boredom.
The man said, “Yes, well.” And Gwydion knew that he had just said that all out loud. “Look at me, Gwydion. Look around us.”
No, no. He shouldn’t, he should keep his eyes closed. Too soon, too soon.
Callused hands gripped his face, caressing, making sure he could not turn away. They were familiar, so very familiar and warm and kind and -
Gwydion was sure he started crying, but the man - a voice in the back of his head whispered a name filled with love and adoration - shushes him and pulls him close and begs him something he could not comprehend.
Lips latched on to his, and something told him that it should be romantic, except what went through his mind was something like, “Oh dear god, I’m dying. We’re dying. There’s fire, so much fire. And rain, there’s rain. Trust it to rain when I die,” and, “We won, we won!” and “Arthur must live.”
And the man - Arthur? - pulled back and Gwydion gasped and felt the world spin in a rhythm that sounded strangely like destiny and said, “Dear fucking god, I asked you to wait!”
The man - whose name was Arthur, he was sure of it now - laughed and kissed him again and this time Gwydion wasn’t as resistant. Except, his name wasn’t Gwydion, it was Merlin. Or Emrys. One of the two … or both.
“Arthur,” he murmured, feeling his heart swell with familiar emotions. Arthur stared at him, mouth set in a frown. Merlin saw blood on the corner and realized he must have bit him. “Sorry,” he said, but he couldn’t help but smile.
Arthur sighed, licking away the blood, and responded, “You know, Merlin, I’ve waited for you ever since that day.”
Then there was just awkwardness and guilt until Arthur finally pulled him close, whispering, “Idiot. You complete idiot.” Then, as a second thought, he added, “But I missed you,” and, “You wouldn’t believe the stories they tell about us.”
Merlin laughed and was grateful because it was Arthur, alive and still his.
This was destiny - peace and solace found after so many ages lost, played out on a well-treaded upon road and a lake that overlooked the sky.