It wasn't surprising that Merlin's attire hadn't come up as of yet. Merlin's life had been thrown so upside down recently that for a while he could scarcely acknowledge what his own name was, let alone give space for aesthetic concerns. From the moment his crew had been called out to check in on a man passed out along the riverbanks, expecting a drunk, and finding instead a very familiar blonde head and aquiline nose, Merlin's heart had both frozen and exploded, caught high in his throat and never settling back down.
There was Arthur's confusion, and Merlin's joy, but there was also grief and anger and panic and a change that Merlin had spent his centuries praying for and now that he was here, entirely did not know what to do with. He hated the fear in Arthur's eyes when a car drove by on the road, the sorrow when he read through Merlin's history books, the insecurity when he quietly asked Merlin what he was to do in a world that no longer needed kings.
So Merlin's mind is understandably distracted as he dresses, pulling on an oversize sweater that was a gift from a coworker, his favorite flowy maxi skirt, a loose scarf for the early fall chill. And really, it was Arthur's fault too, for he had something to say about the ring in Merlin's lip and the length of his hair and the size of his platform boots, and yet nothing about his dress. But when they left Merlin's terrace house with Arthur charging out the front door and insisting that Merlin was lagging behind, as always, Merlin thought no more of his clothes than what he always wore off-duty.
And how could he, when it felt like the sun had finally returned after an endless winter? He knew the terror of being a man out of time, he saw it reflected so clearly in Arthur's eyes. He was prepared to protect Arthur against it all, to feed him the world in bits and pieces, morsels he could swallow.
Arthur didn't want a morsel. He was wide-eyed at indoor plumbing and email and matcha lattes and antibiotics and travel documentaries and Duolingo and breadmakers. He insisted Merlin take him to the local cafe, the thrift stores, the library, the high-end shops, the parks. He was ravenous (at times literally, when anything containing the taste of vanilla or citrus was involved) to take in the world that fate had thrust him back into.
Merlin could never deny his king anything. Every time Arthur smiled at some new flavor or appliance or disease now neutralized, Merlin felt the sun reflect its warmth on him, too. And it was impossible not to smile back.
Even when he was being a brat.
"Get the one with pine-apple," Arthur orders, looking over Merlin's shoulder at the pastry display. While Merlin's spell smoothed Arthur's Brittonic into modern english, words that didn't exist in his time sometimes came out a bit misshapen. "And three mack-a-rooms."
"Macaroons. And you didn't even eat the ones I bought last time."
"Those tasted odd. Like chewing on a sprig of wheat."
"I told you you wouldn't like pistachio. It's not my fault you couldn't resist the fact that they were bright green—"
Merlin had first managed to coax Arthur out of his house and into a public place with the promise of food finer than even the most extravagant feasts in Camelot. Ever since then, he hadn't had a single weekend without Arthur demanding some sort of confectionary. And while that certainly had its upsides (Arthur's delight at the taste of passion fruit and the sugary crumbs on his fingers when he insisted Merlin try a piece and the tranquil mornings as they sat the park and every so often Merlin would turn his head and Arthur would already be looking at him, and how long had he been—?), Merlin wasn't looking forward to seeing how Arthur would handle the dentist in the event of a cavity.
But he categorizes all of that as problems for Future Merlin, who's doing better than he has in quite some time, and right now Present Merlin is only concerned about enjoying his fruit tart. There's a peaceful silence as they leave the bakery, walking over to the park they often visit.
A pair of young men approach them, and Merlin barely notices before one steps in front of him, deliberately, and knocks his shoulder into Merlin's chest.
The tart splats against Merlin's favorite sweater, smearing custard and whipped cream.
"What the fu—" Merlin whirls, expecting to see a pair of sniggering teenage boys. But no, these are men in their mid-twenties, looking at Merlin not with juvenile amusement, but with disgust.
"It's no more of an embarrassment than you already were," one of them spits. "Either dress like a man, or take your freak ass home—"
He stops talking. Arthur's stepped forward, closer than most people are socially comfortable with. "What is the meaning of this?"
It's not a question. The other man is taller than Arthur, and clearly thinks that gives him an advantage. "What are you, his boyfriend? You into that, you sick fuck?"
Merlin's seen enough of Arthur's body language to know that he's about to throw a punch. He doesn't stop it.
Arthur hits hard, not just with his arm muscle, but with his body weight too, the way a boxer would. The man's head whips to the side, momentum nearly knocking him off his feet. Arthur aimed for the jaw, not the nose— which means the man instead goes down, out cold.
The other man for half a second looks stupid enough to charge at Arthur, but then his pants fall down around his ankles. He tries to take a step forward, and instantly falls down, not quite catching himself fast enough to avoid smacking his face against the cobblestone.
Arthur's got the look in his eye that indicates he'd like to deliver them to the police station himself, but people are already starting to give curious looks from a distance, and memory spells always leave Merlin with a migraine. "Come on," he hisses, grabbing Arthur's wrist and quickly dragging him away.
Arthur waits until they've ducked into a little grove at the park to gently pry his wrist free, although his face is all thunder. "They should be arrested. They assaulted you—"
"Technically, you're the one that assaulted them," Merlin points out. Arthur still didn't quite grasp that dueling wasn't an acceptable practice to resolve disputes. "It's not worth the trouble."
"They were worse than Saxons," Arthur retorts, aghast. "Utterly barbaric—" And then he quiets, jaw working in the way such that Merlin knows something more is coming, something uncomfortable. "I… I don't understand. What was it that made them target you?" Then, before Merlin can try to distract him from the crucial detail, "They said you didn't… dress like a man?"
Merlin goes to cross his arms over his chest, until he realizes his sweater is still covered in custard. "They're just knobheads. They…." Merlin chews his lip, catching the cool metal of his ring. Thinking about what words he can say that wouldn't reveal more than he was ready for. "They think of dresses and skirts as woman's clothes, and don't think men should wear them."
"I see."
Merlin can't read anything in Arthur's face, and it's making his pulse quicken. "Did you… did you not wonder, before now? About what, what I wear?"
"I've seen plenty a wizened elder in a tunic. At first I assumed you were merely dressing your age."
Merlin rolls his eyes, but his hands still uneasily fidget by his side. He knows Arthur's deflecting. "But then?"
"I assumed things were different now." Now it's Arthur's turn to avoid Merlin's eyes, putting his hands over his pockets and looking out over the park. With the soft breeze, the background shrieks of children laughing, the melody of quiet conversation, Merlin could almost close his eyes and imagine himself back home. Almost. "Many things are."
"Things are different," Merlin says. "Most people used to think like those two men. Now there are a lot fewer of them."
Arthur nods, still looking over the park. Merlin watches the clench in his jaw, and waits. "You… you never wore women's clothes in Camelot. Did you want to?"
"Never occurred to me. It didn't until—" He swallows down the word hundreds, doesn't want the reminder of how much time there is between himself and everyone he's ever loved. "—quite some time had passed. And then I started, and," he shrugs, aiming for casual, "'s comfortable."
"As in more convenient?"
1500 years, and Merlin's still never braced for when Arthur's gaze zeros in, all of the attention of a hunter finding the weak spot. Like he can see where the edges of Merlin's defenses don't quite line up. Merlin takes a deep breath. "I can change my body however I wish. I can be a man. I can be a woman. I can be a bird, a cat, a snake, I once spent two decades as an oak tree. Trying to make myself match those around me only made me more aware of how different I was. So eventually I just… did as I pleased."
He's watching Arthur so carefully, looking for a twitch, a frown, anything that indicates he's stumbled too far, where not even Arthur's innate compassion can understand him. He wouldn't be upset, as long as Arthur wasn't cruel about it. He's long since learned to take whatever scraps he can salvage.
But after a moment Arthur just nods, looking back at Merlin. "I'm sorry about your sweater." He takes a step to Merlin, gingerly grabbing the hem to inspect the fabric. "Do you think it can be cleaned?"
Merlin's gaze darts around to make sure no one's looking their way, and then his eyes flash gold as the stain on the sweater disappears. "Good as new."
"I used to wonder how you always got even the worst stains out of my clothes," Arthur grumbles. "Do you want to head home? We don't have to…."
Merlin rolls his eyes. "I may not be a man, but I'm not a damsel. I don't need coddling after losing my tart."
"Well," says Arthur. He lets go of the sweater, but he doesn't step back. His hand moves slowly, courageously, to Merlin's hand hanging by his side. Their knuckles brush. "If you ask nicely I might be persuaded to split my pastry with you."
Merlin slowly curls his hand around Arthur's own, and watches as Arthur's cheeks turn pink. His gaze doesn't stray from Merlin's however, and Merlin thinks he'll never meet a braver man. "Even the macaroons?"
"Don't get greedy," Arthur retorts, and pulls Merlin along into the light of day.
gwen holding her dying brother in her arms but her brain was already warped and twisted against him. did she know? was the real gwen in there watching, screaming, wailing - did her tears come from a very real place within her, that morgana's lies couldn't drown out? how much grief did she need to fake? was it all pretend - or did it burn up inside of her, real, raw, unable to be kept below the surface. did she notice how it badly it hurt seeing her only remaining family slain in front of her. did she feel frustrated at her old self, or confused at her new self, when those tears came far too easily?
i can't work out if it's worse if she never knew. what if it only hit later - standing in that lake, in the arms of her husband, only then did the true loss of elyan sink in, her knees buckling, clinging onto arthur like she would keel over otherwise, let the water take her. her grief was stolen from her, her last moments with her brother lost forever to someone else's memory, a part of her that was never real
No but seriously what the fuck did Merlin and Arthur talk about on the way home from the Labyrinth of Gedref. Did the two of them just ride back to Camelot in dead silence waiting for the other to bring up that they're now seemingly prepared to to die for each other no questions asked ???
“I told you it’s just a sniffle, Merlin; you really don’t have to do all of that.”
“Hush, you,” Merlin said, and continued fluffing his mother’s pillows. “You were halfway to comatose and burning up with fever last night when I got in.” He gave her a stern look. “You’re lucky you have a medically-educated and doting son to nurse you. Lie back, I’ll get the tincture.”
Hunith rolled her eyes, but as he moved away, she gave his hand a conciliatory squeeze.
“And what about you?” she called, and sniffed.
“What about me?”
“Who looks after you when you’re poorly?”
He glanced up from where he was swirling around the murky liquid. “Are you saying you wouldn’t come look after me if I was sick? And after all I’ve done for you.”
“I wouldn’t if you were being a bastard.” Merlin snorted. “Of course I would, you tit. But I’m an old woman and I can’t travel as I once could.”
Merlin sat down again by her bedside, frowning. “What are you saying?”
“I’m just saying it might be nice to—you know. Have someone a bit closer to home.”
He handed her the medicine, saying, “Get it down fast, and don’t ask what’s in it. Hold your nose if you have to; it tastes like arse.”
She gave him a wry look, full of questions he wouldn’t disturb her by answering, but she did as she was told and got it down in one with only a grimace and a polite burp.
Merlin was still frowning. “You mean like a lover?”
“Like a companion,” she said dryly, wincing as she set the vial down.
Merlin sat back in his chair and looked down at his hands, worn with calluses and fine wrinkles.
“What would I need with a companion?” he said, his voice quiet. “I get by just fine.”
“Liar,” his mother scolded. “I have letters from Gwen. She says she hasn’t seen you in over a year. You spend all your time alone; I just—don’t want you to be lonely, love.”
“I’m not,” he said, smiling thinly. “I have you.”
She gave him a sad smile and took his hand.
“Besides,” he said, looking away, “he’s coming back.”
“You don’t know that, Merlin.”
“I do.”
He didn’t say that he couldn’t imagine taking a companion without the taste of disloyalty burning bitter in the back of his throat, nor that he couldn’t so much as have his hair ruffled by another without picturing the blond head smiling down at him.
Each night he took the pain of it to bed with him, and nestled down beside it like a lover, so that it was now as much a part of him as the love. And on those nights, he dreams of a time where he will wake with the bed warmed by the body beside him, and he will be held, and they will have time.
“It’s been a long time,” she said, looking down at their hands, old and older, intertwined, “you know that. I just don’t want you to spend the rest of your life waiting around. There’s still a whole lot of good out there that you might miss out on.”
He looked up at her then and saw the beseeching look, and gave it a reassuring smile in return, with a squeeze of his hand for good measure. He stood, pulled up her blankets and planted a kiss on her forehead, all the while saying nothing at all, so he wouldn’t have to lie.
write a fic in 50 words (or more if the mood strikes you) and tag @merthurmicrofic so we can all enjoy your work! art, gifsets, essays, mood boards and so on are also welcome.
Blinking, Arthur read the next sentence of the letter, found it didn't make any sense, and went back to the previous sentence, then the one before that, and the one before that too, and found himself sighing. He was rereading the start of the letter, some lord grumbling about how he needed a new physician, when his vision was overcome by something blue, with gold embroidery — his tunic, it turned out, flung into his face.
"You need to get ready," Merlin told him, in his usual cheerfully treasonous tone. He was already dressed in a dark blue tunic and black hose, which had the combined effect of making Arthur swallow back all sorts of promises.
"You could've told me that, instead of committing violence against the king's person."
"I did." Arthur was pretty sure that was a lie. "You weren't listening to me, though you never do, so I wasn't exactly surprised."
"Probably you weren't loud enough." Arthur turned the tunic over, studying the embroidery. "Do you — would you want…"
"What?" Merlin had already returned to studying the insides of Arthur's wardrobe, and didn't bother turning around.
"Well, you know you don't have to stay on as my manservant. You should … everyone's surprised, but you do have some other talents, admittedly very limited." It made him sick to his stomach to say it — the idea of Merlin having talents, of course, not the idea that he might decide to leave Arthur.
"I should," Arthur muttered, as he did at least once a week. He shucked his tunic and washed his face quickly, trying to get his thoughts in order. "I'm just saying. You have options."
"No." Merlin shoved the hose at Arthur and pushed him behind the privacy screen to change.
"Morgana and Mithian are going to start that legion of sorcerer-knights. Or they'd take you as their new court sorcerer, if it's the idea of me promoting you that you can't stand."
"And live in Nemeth?" Arthur could hear the wrinkle in Merlin's nose. That was fair. Nemeth did eat a lot of seafood.
"Fine. Lord — uh — what's his face. He wants a new healer." Finally dressed, Arthur re-emerged, only to be shoved into a chair.
"What's his face," Merlin repeated dubiously, tugging a comb through his hair. It was remarkably painful, telling Arthur he was treading on thin ice. "That's a winning proposition, my lord." The ice was thin enough to crack at any point.
"Ow." Arthur glared at Merlin over a particularly painful tug; Merlin was unrepentant. "You really want to stay on as my manservant? Keep dealing with my stinky socks?"
"They are especially stinky." Merlin pursed his lips as he ran his hand over Arthur's chin, feeling the stubble. "Should've shaved you first."
"You can just …" Arthur waved his hand, and felt Merlin's magic wash over his face. It was familiar, for all that it was an especially mundane use compared to the usual. "Merlin. At least let me give you a station that acknowledges all the times you've saved my life."
"Ever heard of a week off?" Merlin asked as he knelt at Arthur's feet with the dressier boots.
"No."
"Well, there's your first problem." Merlin stepped back, studying him, then picked up the circlet. For all that his tone was especially grumpy, he was near reverent as he placed it in Arthur's hair, adjusting it carefully to sit it just right.
"Is there anything else you want?"
"How about a day off? I'll take one day."
Sighing, Arthur took the signet ring and slid it on. "Mer-lin."
"Is there anything else you're prepared to give me?" Merlin asked as he handed Arthur a grey jacket. Arthur shrugged it on, pursing his lips.
"Other than a day off? Anything, really," Arthur said, now serious.
Merlin stilled, eyes on Arthur's face, then glanced down. For a moment, Arthur fancied that his eyes had lingered on Arthur's chest, to the left.
"Well. That's." Merlin shrugged, and turned away, but Arthur grabbed his arm, those promises on the tip of his tongue.
"Anything," he repeated, intent, studying Merlin's face. "I'd give you anything, everything I could."
Merlin's hand hesitantly reached up. Arthur didn't move, letting it come to a stop hovering next to his jaw. "Anything?" Merlin asked. Arthur tipped his head into Merlin's hand, eyes fixed on Merlin's. "Even — your heart?"
"Dunce," Arthur said, face threatening to break out into a blinding grin. "That's always been yours, you idiot."
Merlin's eyes narrowed, but Arthur quickly confirmed that kissing Merlin was an excellent strategy for ensuring he had the last say. And it was addictive besides — the gentle press of lips against lips, his hand finding a new home on Merlin's back and pressing him close, Merlin's hands cradling his jaw and tilting him just right, the quiet moan Merlin let out.
All too soon, though, Merlin pulled away, though his hands stayed on Arthur's face. Arthur made a soft, unhappy sound, which was embarrassing, but that lessened when he saw Merlin's hungry look.
Still, Merlin stepped away, saying, in a tone suggestive that he was not about to return to his newly assigned duties of kissing Arthur all the time, "Mithian and Morgana will kill us if we're late."
"We already celebrated their wedding yesterday. Why do we have to have another feast?" Arthur hoped he hadn't sounded as plaintive as he thought.
"I know," Merlin said, shaking his head, albeit with a fair bit of condescension. Horrifically, he was heading for the door, rather than then bed. And he was straightening his clothing. "Royals. Honestly."
"I'll be making you a royal too when we marry."
Merlin pulled a face, but his eyes lit up in amusement. "Who was that lord who wanted a healer again?"
"Oi!" Arthur dived for him again, and found himself chasing Merlin out the door, down the hallway, and towards the hall, and the rest of their lives.
When their party is captured by Saxons, Merlin doesn’t say I told you so. He thinks it, certainly, shooting a look at Arthur, but keeps his mouth shut.
Gwaine, unsurprisingly, has no such qualms. He leans back against the cold stone of the dungeon, lips curling into a crooked smirk despite their circumstances. “Go ahead, Merlin. Whatever it is you’re thinking, I’m sure we’d all love to hear it.”
And, well, if he’s being invited, it would be rude for Merlin not to share.
“I,” Merlin says, full of righteous annoyance, “told you so.”
The look Arthur gives him from across their cell is deeply unimpressed. Merlin can’t imagine why; after all, it’s not Merlin’s fault that they went galavanting through the Valley of the Fallen Kings. As a matter of fact, Merlin is the one who explicitly told everyone that that was a horrible idea.
“Is that all?” Arthur asks, almost challenging.
Merlin pretends to consider it. “Hm. No. You’re also a cabbagehead.”
Arthur’s pursed lips turn into a proper scowl. “Just get us out of here, Merlin, before your prattling makes us all go mad.”
Merlin rolls his eyes, lifting a hand towards the cell door. “Is that any way to treat someone who was right?”
The door flies off of its hinges, but Arthur doesn’t so much as blink. “Is that any way to speak to your king?”
“Well, is that–”
“Ladies,” Gwaine says, placating, “perhaps we could save the flirting for later, after we’ve escaped?”
Arthur goes bright red. “That wasn’t— we weren’t—“
Merlin wants to protest, but, well. Just because Arthur is oblivious doesn’t mean that he is, too.
Footsteps echo thunderously down the corridor. Unsurprising, since they haven’t exactly been quiet in their escape attempt, but inconvenient nonetheless.
Arthur and Gwaine both reach for swords that aren’t there.
When the Saxons come into view, Merlin’s eyes burn gold, and the men drop like puppets whose strings have been cut.
Merlin surveys the scene, shaking his head and only partially pretending to be annoyed. “I’m just doing all the work today, aren’t I? You know, between this and having told you so, I think I deserve a raise.”
Arthur pushes past him, shoulders knocking together as he makes for the door. “Shut up, Merlin.”
The Golden Age That Never Was
The Truth About Grief, Fortesa Latifi + BBC Merlin Episodes 1.10, 1.12, 1.08, 1.13, 5.12, 2.12, 2.08, 5.05 (repeated), 4.10, and 5x13.
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