The night before the wedding, Merlin lies down on the beach and stares, into the liminal space just before the moon sets and the sun rises. So weak with heartsore that he can’t feel anything, not even fear for what will come.
The tide is rising, gentle eddies that lap at his ankles and race up his thighs, unmaking him with each gentle touch. Each tingle quickens up his legs and crawls up his spine, the numbness not from the cold, but something far more sinister.
It will be like returning home, he tells himself, back to all the crystal shallows and luminous corals that haunt his sleepless nights. Except he will be a part of it, instead of amongst them. As easy as falling asleep, Morgana had promised him, when he was young and naive, tempted by love and a destiny too vast to be contained even by the ocean.
It was all before he discovered desire was a harpoon, and that he would twist the barbed tip deeper into his chest if it could make his Prince happy. Even if it meant watching Arthur smile over the table at another servant girl, even if it meant letting go of what he had come for, even if it meant orchestrating his own downfall with another candlelight dinner, knowing all those touches and gazes would never be for him.
The water frames his face with gentle swishes. Merlin has long forgotten how to breathe under it, but he lets it climb and caress his cheekbones, and pretends it is Arthur’s cool fingers that smooth across his brow. He thinks back to that one fateful evening, where it was Arthur lying supine on the sand instead. Merlin had dragged Arthur from the tide, heart so full with yearning that it might burst from just this initial glimpse.
He exhales, and lets the breath melt into the hiss of sea foam. Except now, Arthur will never return this favour. Come morning, Arthur will be too giddy and distracted by Gwen’s sweet laughter to notice it isn’t Merlin who brings him his robes or breakfast.
Come morning, the ocean will smooth away the dips in the sand and swallow up the leftover white froth. It will roll on indifferently like it always has.
Come morning, as a new golden age dawns upon Albion, Merlin will never have existed at all.
prompt: change + water @merthurmicrofic
bingo: fairytale AU + present tense
words: 398
I don't know about you, but I can't believe it's time to post this list again. Like in the past, questions focus on what you created and how you felt this year.
Two ways to play: Reblog and have your followers send you numbers, or answer the whole list!
Including WIPs, how many fics have you worked on since January 1st? Original fiction counts too!
How many did you post for other people to read?
What's something NEW that you tried in a fic?
What piece of media inspired you the most?
How many fandoms did you write for?
What ship(s) captured your heart?
What character(s) captured your heart?
Did you write for any new fandoms or ships?
What fic meant the most to you to write?
What fic made you feel the happiest to work on?
What fic was the most satisfying to finish?
What fic was the most challenging to work on?
What's the most interesting topic you researched for a fic?
What were your shortest and longest fics?
What was on your writing playlist?
Where did you write? Was there a favorite spot?
What’s your favorite title of the year?
Share your favorite opening line
Share your favorite ending line
Share your favorite piece of dialogue
Share the funniest line(s) you wrote this year
Did you get frustrated with a fic at some point? What happened and how did you get past it?
If you had to choose one, what was THE most satisfying writing moment of your year?
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Did you create fanworks other than fic? Show one off!
How many fannish events did you take part in? Things like bangs, exchanges, ship weeks, zines, prompt memes, etc. They all count!
Think back on everything you've worked on since January and give yourself a compliment. A real one! Be nice to yourself.
for @merthurmicrofic ︱"kneel" ︱5+1 ︱3065 words ︱cw: implied nsfw
five times merlin kneeled for arthur, and one time arthur kneels for him.
there is nothing "micro" about this fic but blame my inability to chose just one concept for "kneel". enjoy this truly idiot4idiot collection of scenes. don't worry about the canonness of any of it because i certainly didn't
the fourth scene was inspired in part by @diaryofatrekker's microfic for this prompt, which is excellent and can be found here
1.
Arthur’s head slams back against the tree he’s thrown against, and the whole world explodes into pain. He slumps to the ground, and he needs to get up, he must, but his body refuses to obey. Sunlight itself is agony, and he squeezes his eyes shut.
And now Merlin’s been proven right about the “funny feeling” he had when Arthur set out to hunt that morning. Truly a worse outcome than whatever crippling head injury Arthur’s just suffered.
Speaking of Merlin, Arthur thinks he can hear his voice, distant, but everything is muffled and distorted. He’ll get back up, and protect Merlin from the angry coven of witches they’ve stumbled upon that Merlin is no doubt antagonizing even further. Just… just give him a second….
Arthur faintly hears a crash, and a female scream of pain. “Leave him alone!”
“How dare you fight for the Pendragons against your own kind!” Arthur still can’t move, can’t open his eyes, but he thinks he hears footsteps approaching. “They deserve to burn just like they burned us!”
“Stop!” That’s Merlin’s voice. Arthur’s sure of it. He twitches uselessly, but it sends another wave of pain through him. All he can manage is bearily blinking his eyes open.
He sees a dark figure standing close to him, something warm and flickering in her palm. But Arthur’s eyes focus on Merlin, dropping to his knees despite the defiant set of his jaw and the steel in his eyes. “If you want revenge, take it out on me. Arthur’s done nothing wrong. But I’ve had a million chances to end Uther’s life. I have magic, and I serve the Pendragons. I’m the one you should hate.”
Merlin’s words are muffled and indistinct in Arthur’s aching mind, nonsensical. All he can focus on is the way his servant waits, kneeling in the dirt, defenseless, offering himself up for Arthur’s protection.
Merlin, you idiot, Arthur thinks. And then he slips into unconsciousness, and when he wakes back up to Merlin’s smiling face telling him that the witches ran away, all he can remember is the vague feeling of devotion.
2.
Later, Arthur will blame the wine - the way it lowered his normally carefully controlled desires, the way it made Merlin’s mouth and lips flush so prettily, the way it made his already-fire-warmed chambers practically scorching, such that he’s ripping off his vest and Merlin’s ditching his scarf as they step inside. They’re both still giddy from the feast, and from watching Morgana win an arm wrestling challenge against a positively mortified Sir Kay.
“I think I heard Leon whimper. Whimper,” Merlin says scandalously, and Arthur can’t help but laugh. He walks over to his desk, grabbing a couple more goblets. He doesn’t want this night to end. Not yet.
Could you miss something you’ve never had? Arthur thinks he does, sometimes. Missing the easy footsteps of a companion by his side, someone that knows just want to say to make him laugh, not to earn his favor or flatter him, but for the mere pleasure of bringing a smile to Arthur’s face. In his more addled moments Arthur thinks that there’s always been an empty shape beside him that Merlin was meant to fill.
Yes, it’s definitely because of the wine, as their goblets clink together, how Arthur watches how Merlin’s eyes track down to his lips, to the bob of his neck as he swallows. His pupils are wide.
Arthur lowers the goblet, licks his lips, and says, “You look like you want to kiss me.”
Merlin stills. His eyes lock onto Arthur’s, searching, and Arthur knows he’s looking for any hint of cruelty, of mockery. When he finds none Merlin takes a breath. “And what if I do?”
Arthur sets his goblet down, and takes his own from Merlin’s hands. His pulse hammers like a drum, and when their fingertips brush he sees Merlin poorly try to suppress a shudder. “Then you should do what you want,” Arthur says, enjoying the way Merlin’s lips part with pure desire at his low tone. “I think you’ll find it’s quite welcome.”
Merlin grabbing the front of his shirt and pushing him against the wall is exactly the reaction he's looking for. The servant's mouth is hot on Arthur's, no finesse, only clumsy desire. Arthur bites his bottom lip, pleased when it makes Merlin groan and rock their hips together.
As much as Arthur teases Merlin for being a petticoat, a wilting flower, in his heart he knows Merlin’s none of those things - there’s steel in his spine, there must be to look at the Prince dead in the eye and tell him he’s wrong, to run headfirst into danger alongside Arthur again and again. Every now and then Arthur catches glimpses of a fire that seems to rival his own, and he wants to know how hot it burns.
Merlin breaks away, detaching himself from the circle of bruises Arthur’s left on his neck that he hopes will be impossible to hide. He slides to his knees, fingers catching on the laces of Arthur’s breeches, and Arthur stops thinking entirely.
3.
It’s instinct, not logic that has Arthur shoving Merlin - the sorcerer - back, his sword held steady at the man’s throat. Logic would have Arthur near losing his mind after watching the world freeze to a halt, including a spear that was set to drive right into his heart, and his manservant’s eyes blazing the most brilliant gold Arthur’s ever seen.
Instinct has him pin the sorcerer in place, where one twitch of his wrist would slice his throat wide open. “Who are you,” Arthur growls.
The man’s eyes look petrified, but it must be a trick. “It’s - it’s still me. I’m Merlin.”
“I’m not an idiot,” Arthur seethes, and a part of him just wants to kill the sorcerer on the spot, except - “What have you done to Merlin? Have you captured him? Possessed him?”
“Arthur, it–” The man’s breath hitches, and it takes all of Arthur’s self-control not to react to Merlin’s face, pale and teary. “It’s really me. I-I swear. I have magic.” His hands stay pinned at his side, not moving a muscle. Arthur doesn’t know if it’s due to the threat of Arthur’s sword or sheer terror. “I’ve always had magic.”
“Liar!” He presses with his sword, trembling with rage, and the sorcerer sucks in a breath as a bead of red rises to his neck. “Where is Merlin!?”
A tear rolls down the man’s cheek. “Last week I - I brought you a scabbard I’d made for your dagger. As a thank you for convincing your father to send aid to the cities on Camelot’s borders.”
Arthur can’t believe him. He refuses to. “Anyone could have heard that from castle gossip.”
“And then you took me to bed, and rode me like a stallion, and gagged me with your glove so that the guards wouldn’t hear us,” Merlin finishes acidly.
Not enough to bugger his manservant, must be a sorcerer as well. Maybe it would have been better for all involved if Arthur had lost his head in any of the many attempts on his life.
Arthur steps back, sword still held aloft. Merlin makes no attempt to stop the bleeding on his neck. “Why.”
It’s all he can muster, but Merlin understands. Because damn him, of course he does. “I use it for you. To help you. To protect you.”
“Why would a sorcerer want to help me?” Arthur snaps. “My father has hunted down and killed every one of your kind, and when I take the throne I’m expected to do the same. Are you stupid?” And, oh no, Arthur’s tone is worriedly shifting from anger into fear. “What sort of mental infliction do you have that would possess you to walk into bloody Camelot and become the servant of the crown prince. Befriend him. Sleep with him!”
Arthur doesn’t realize he’s shouting until he stops, breathing heavily. Merlin’s still looking at him with wide, teary eyes, and Arthur really wants to look away, because that gaze is enchanting him, it must be, the way it makes Arthur want to throw down his sword and gather Merlin into his arms.
Then Merlin’s knees buckle, and he hits the forest floor with a quiet thump. His head bows, the long line of his neck perfectly exposed for Arthur’s blade. “Because you’re my King,” he says softly. Treason. Enough reason for Arthur to run him through right there, with or without magic. “You’ll become a great ruler, Arthur. My magic is for your service. All of it. All of me.”
Merlin’s crying properly, Arthur can hear it in his voice, but there’s not a single word that he says without conviction. “Idiot,” he says one more time, utterly vicious, and then he’s throwing his sword down and yanking Merlin into his arms.
4.
The coronation ceremony is an endless affair. Eventually it concludes, and Arthur can slip away without turning the senior council against him on the very first day of his reign. Arthur finds himself silently walking the halls of his home.
He sheds his crown and cloak, and steps out into the night air, the tallest spire the castle holds. The air is cold, but Arthur welcomes the bite. He looks out over the castle, the houses that surround its outer gates, the flickering candlelights, the full moon highlighting the forest in the distance. His kingdom.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been out there when he hears familiar footsteps approaching. “Knew I’d find you out here,” Merlin says.
“No, you didn’t,” Arthur retorts, not looking away from the horizon. “Probably enchanted one of the castle rats to tell you.”
“I don’t need to enchant the rats for them to tell me things,” Merlin says stuffily, and it brings the ghost of a smile to Arthur’s lips for the first time that day. Merlin walks up beside him, leaning on the stone wall alongside Arthur. “How are you doing?”
He’s the only person to have asked Arthur that all day. “All my life, I’ve known that I would one day have this responsibility,” Arthur says softly. “Everything I’ve done is to prepare for it. But now I feel… unworthy.”
Merlin’s quiet for a moment. For all his glib and quick tongue, he’s never too hasty with Arthur’s heart. “I don’t think men who are happy to assume the throne make good kings,” Merlin finally says thoughtfully. “It’s a heavy burden to carry.”
“It’s what I’m built for,” Arthur says.
“Maybe,” Merlin says. “But you don’t carry it alone.”
He tugs at Arthur’s wrist, making Arthur turn to look at him as Merlin falls to one knee. Merlin cradles Arthur’s hand with both of his own, pressing his lips to the palm. “My king.”
“You already swore your fealty during the ceremony,” Arthur reminds him. Mainly to cut off the growing emotion in his chest he’s very concerned will lead to tears.
“Well I swore to obey and respect you, and we both know that’s inaccurate,” Merlin says with a smile. He then sombers, dipping his head so that it brushes Arthur’s knuckles. “I swear on my magic,” Merlin breathes, his eyes glowing gold just for Arthur’s viewing, “that I will always walk by your side. That I will face any challenge alongside you. That I will never let you carry this burden alone. That I devote my life, my magic, my heart - to Camelot. To you.” Arthur’s eyes are hot as Merlin looks up, but Merlin’s eyes are shining as well. “My lord.”
“My love,” Arthur replies, and Merlin sucks in a sob at the confession, successfully overtaking Arthur’s own tears. A very kingly maneuver, Arthur thinks, as Merlin flings himself into Arthur’s waiting arms.
5.
Arthur should have done this years ago. For no other reason that he’s denied himself the view of how glorious Merlin looks in rich blue velvet, silver embroidery woven into the doublet. He’s commissioning Merlin an entirely new wardrobe befitting his station first thing tomorrow morning.
But first, he needs to actually grant Merlin the station. Merlin kneels in front of him, and Arthur knows he’s self conscious of all the court’s eyes on him, from the pink in his ears. But Merlin practically beams with pride, head high, meeting Arthur’s eyes unwaveringly.
“Sir Merlin of Camelot.” Arthur’s voice is firm and clear. “Do you swear that you will honor and uphold the laws of Camelot?”
“I do,” Merlin says without hesitation. A fleeting thought crosses Arthur’s mind that finally, that isn’t a lie.
“Do you swear to use your magic to protect Camelot, and to aid her people?”
Hushed murmurs ripple through the crowd. Arthur supposes that despite the royal proclamation, old beliefs die hard. “I do.” Merlin says.
“Do you swear your loyalty to your king?”
Merlin had already proven his loyalty quite thoroughly that morning, but it wasn’t the sort of event that could be made public. “My loyalty, and my life,” Merlin replies, the bastard. Arthur’s sure he’s going prematurely gray from Merlin’s constant attempts to throw himself in front of any danger approaching Arthur.
Arthur steps forward, the chain in his hands warmed by his touch. He loops the necklace over his lover’s bowed head. The silver pendant rests right on Merlin’s sternum, the Pendragon crest on one side, and a triskelion on the other. Unambiguously tying Arthur’s reign and magic.
“Arise Sir Merlin, Court Sorcerer of Camelot,” Arthur says, voice beaming with pride, and Merlin looks up at him, looking very much like he’s trying to do his best not to burst into tears in front of the entire court. Arthur will call him a simpering lamb later, but for now. For now, Arthur feels the same.
+1.
“You’re up to something,” Merlin accuses as they tie up their horses. Try as Arthur might, he’s resisted Arthur’s attempts to put him in finery, wearing his usual simple tunics and breeches. Still, the sight of the silver necklace Merlin wears at all times satisfies Arthur’s desires for the time being.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You cleared our schedules. You rescheduled the knights’ training. You packed lunch,” Merlin says, looking aghast. “I didn’t know you knew how to do that.”
“Thank you, Merlin, for thinking I’m a complete invalid,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes. He takes the pack with their lunch over to a sunny patch by the brook’s edge. He hopes if he keeps himself busy, Merlin won’t notice the tremble in his hands. “Maybe I just wanted to spend some time together outside of our regular schedules. Passing out when I’m two thrusts in doesn’t exactly do wonders for my honor.”
“I said I was sorry!” Merlin shrieks, and Arthur grins. “You try staying awake after thirty hours straight spent making sure all of Camelot doesn’t die because the air was turned into poison. No, this is-” He points an accusing finger at Arthur. “You’re being weird. You’re being… romantic.”
Arthur frowns. He feels like he should be offended. “I’m very romantic.” Merlin makes a face. “I’m very romantic!” Arthur repeats.
“You’re romantic in like the….” Merlin gestures wildly with his hands, which could mean absolutely anything at all and is not descriptive in the least. “Charging in with your sword way, telling the council to shut up and listen to me way, letting me eat all your honey treats way. Not the… this… way.”
Arthur looks down at the pack, where a jar of honey candies rests inside. “I see.”
“Did you do something?” Merlin says, eyes narrowing. “Am I going to be mad at you? You didn’t challenge some nobleman for my honor again, did you?”
“Oh, for the love of–” Arthur throws his hands up in the air. “If you would just stop complaining for a moment-”
“I told you Arthur, they have different customs-”
“-you may notice-”
“-he was kissing my cheek as a greeting-”
“-that I am trying to propose to you!” Arthur shouts. He stomps over, grabs Merlin’s hand, and solidly takes a knee before his lover.
Merlin just stares at him, mouth agape, finally quiet. Good.
He wants romance? Arthur will show him romance.
“Merlin,” he growls, which is probably not the best way to start a proposal but it’s all Merlin’s fault. Focus. Romance. “Merlin,” he tries again, “I love you. I love every part of you, even your incessant disrespect and constant attempts to give me a heart attack. Everyone in Camelot knows you serve this kingdom just as much as I do.” Merlin opens his mouth to retort, but Arthur gives him a glare. This is his proposal, dammit. “There is no man I think of as braver,” he says, voice dropping. He takes Merlin’s limp left hand and runs his thumb over the knuckles as he speaks. “More loyal, more caring, more devoted. More mine. You deserve every bit of me that I can give you.”
Arthur reaches into his pocket. “I wish I could give you everything. I know the crown owns a part of me. You’ve already taken on so many of my burdens.” He lets out a shaky breath, his heart hammering. “Forgive me if I ask you to take on one more.”
Merlin gasps as Arthur pulls the ring out, a thick silver band etched with a pattern of leaves and a blue center stone. “You already have my heart, my life, my soul. Please. Take my hand too.” Arthur looks up at the man he loves so much, beautiful blue eyes wide, cheeks flushed rose. “Marry me.”
The words scarcely finish leaving his mouth before Merlin throws himself at Arthur, knocking them both into the dirt, his mouth hot and salty with tears on Arthur’s. They kiss until Merlin breaks away with “My ring, I want the ring, Arthur,” and Arthur realizes that in his focus on gripping Merlin’s waist he’s lost his hold on the silver objects. Then Arthur’s searching on his hands and knees in the dirt while Merlin shrieks that this is an ill omen, until Arthur remembers that his future Royal Consort is a bloody sorcerer, and he turns to see Merlin fighting a smile. His eyes glow gold, and the ring floats onto Arthur’s palm, and Arthur wants to strangle him.
He slips the ring onto Merlin’s finger with grass-stained trousers, promises of punishment and retribution while Merlin says he’s now threatening a member of the royal house, and that’s treason. Merlin leans down for another kiss, incandescently happy, and Arthur’s never been so happy to kneel.
Farm work is grueling on the body. It’s an inevitable truth. Hauling the buckets and the bales, driving the always-sticking plough, craning over to soothe a lamb, to winnow wheat, to curl two fingers and wedge wet seeds into the earth.
Merlin’s mother had had a mat — an old, straw thing, parchment-thin, so you could feel every bump and pillbug in the soil. But she had sworn by it like it was a god of the Old Religion, pressing her knees devoutly to its surface as she tended the first bulb, then laying it before the next, again, and again, until the field was sown and the sun slunk behind the trees and the pattern of the weave was etched into her skin.
Merlin, as a boy, had been too impatient for such things. The soft mounds of the tilth had been enough cushioning for him, and he’d let the grit make its own way out when he washed the day’s work off in the stream. Sometimes, when nobody was looking, he’d float just a hair’s width off the ground, instead, but the way he didn’t wince when he stood up again rose some suspicions.
In Camelot, kneeling had meant something different. When you kneel before a king, there is no earth to ground you, no weathered mat to greet your fall. Your knees grind like a pestle into the hard limestone of the floor, and you’re meant to feel the coldness of it, Merlin thinks. Like it’s a penance.
Over the years, he does a lot of kneeling. When he’s in the armoury, too tired to stand, and polishes a sword over the bench. By the bedside of a patient, as he wipes the fever from their brow. Every time he tends the fire and stays there a moment longer than he needs to, breathing in, clenching his nails into his thighs and biting back the words as he watches the smoke ripple from the hearth.
Merlin gets used to it, which isn’t difficult. It’s not so different from his childhood; the pain is just the price you pay to live.
The first time Merlin kneels for Arthur, Arthur slips a pillow under his knees.
At first, it is the ghost of something comforting—hands and knees in the dirt like a mourner at a funeral, like a saint at an altar waiting for grace. Later, it’s penance. Eventually: devotion, springing ever-green from the earth that Arthur once loved, a crop tended as carefully as any harvest.
In life, Arthur could command fealty from any man, but in death he is the subject of oaths made by roots in the soil, by the green shoots and new leaves at the turn of the season. By the same hands, kneeling over and over again, pressing seeds of faith into the dirt in the hope that he will rise again.
Arthur stirs. In the grey half-light before dawn, Merlin silently leaves the bed—as he has done every morning since Arthur’s return.
He waits until he hears the quiet click of the latch on the door before he sits up, sighing.
The first time he noticed, he’d assumed Merlin was still an early riser; when he eventually grew curious enough to follow, he’d learned why.
*
Merlin pads through the garden on silent feet, huddled in a jacket to fend off the autumnal chill, and traces a well-worn path along the fields below. He heads towards a tangle of gnarled, weather-beaten trees, which shelter him from view on the small stretch of stones on the lakeshore.
There he kneels, head bowed, and touches the palm of his hand to the surface of the lake.
‘Good morning, Arthur,’ he says—the first words of the day. And he stays crouched there, whispering to the water gently lapping at his knees, until the sun has fully risen. Arthur doesn’t know what he says—doesn’t stay to try and overhear. He recognises a man at prayer when he sees one.
*
Every morning, rain or shine, Merlin performs his secret liturgy. And Arthur becomes familiar with the routine, with its pace, and knows exactly when to brew the coffee for Merlin’s return—his own gentle, daily devotional.
It is painful to watch. But Arthur keeps waiting, and keeps making the coffee, and smiles when Merlin walks through the door. It will take a while to break the habit of a lifetime.
But one morning, months later, he wakes in the twilight to a warm body still lying next to his. He rolls over, and Merlin smiles at him.
More went in to the care and keeping of a fifth century man than Merlin, despite having had the ensuing fifteen centuries to ponder it, had fully prepared to handle. For example: the vaccine schedule for an entirely un-immunized thirty-year-old man in 2025. For a second example: an appropriate cover story for those circumstances, and also Merlin’s own presence in the room, hovering over Arthur’s shoulder like a first-time parent, or worse, some kind of skeptic. Magic easily falsified documents, smoothed over uncomfortable questions from civil servants processing said documents, solved language barriers, and gave history lessons. The accumulation of time furnished him with all the clothing and essentials Arthur could possibly need many, many times over, and the caprice of time furnished him with every blessed opportunity to get Arthur dressed up in whatever fashions Merlin had collected throughout the centuries, just to look at him.
The most casual insinuation that Merlin himself had no problem getting his shots, and what was Arthur, scared? got him into the doctor’s office easily enough—but, Merlin having become, in various five-or-six decade cycles throughout his vigil, the sort of old man who flees to the countryside for some blessed peace and quiet, they did have to drive into town for the doctor. This experience as usual preserved the feeling in Merlin that, while Arthur was being a very brave king about needles, Merlin was at the groomer’s with a very nervous husky who was about to start screaming the neighborhood down and would get impounded if he started biting.
Through some miracle, Arthur managed to sit in a waiting room and even take a series of injections without traumatizing any innocent patients, receptionists, nurses, or Merlins. And once they were home, and Arthur had finished his habitual round of cursing cars, Merlin, other motorists, Merlin, Merlin’s car, Merlin’s driving, and, by the way, Merlin himself for good measure, for allowing in his infinite powers humanity to settle on non-equine methods of getting people from one place to another, Arthur came over rather smug about having gracefully overcome something Merlin had clearly expected to be a trial for him.
Now, Merlin tried his best to be patient. He knew this was an ungodly adjustment for any man to make, having dwelled on it, sulked on it, and borne it in slow motion himself like an idiot frog whose life’s wish was to be soup one day. And, frankly, Merlin was still so weak in the knees with relief at having Arthur back—and in a world that was only sort-of-ending, a little bit, in the usual way—that his patience was deeper and wider than it had ever been:
But alas, Arthur was still Arthur, and by that night, with a low fever, an egg-sized bruise on his arm, and an equally swollen temper, he was the most Arthur he’d been since walking out of that damn lake.
“Fine, next time you can test your kingly constitution against the measles,” Merlin snarled after having his generous offer of Campbells’ finest rebuffed and a damp towel thrown at his head.
“I’m only saying,” Arthur snotted back, “I have learned quite interesting things about the uselessness of leeching of late! Who’s to say your physicians of today have grown any less dubious in their remedies?”
“I can see the headlines now: The Great King Arthur, savior of Albion, brings apocalypse by dying of fucking whooping cough—”
Merlin ducked out of the room, then, because Arthur had seized the bottle of Gatorade from his bedside table, and Merlin wasn’t interested in cleaning Glacier Freeze out of his carpets tonight.
Later, though—much later, when Merlin was in bed, awake still and still fuming, at Arthur and at himself for despite everything being unable to sleep for having fought with him—Arthur opened his bedroom door with a soft click, stole across his floor in sock feet, and laid himself down atop the covers, an inch from Merlin’s back.
Merlin lay on his side, arms folded stiff across his chest. A gentle hand cupped his elbow, then fell away. Warm light from the hallway wedged itself across the floor; streetlight from the window slatted the other half of the room into pieces, silver and gold. Though Merlin didn’t bother with any pretense at being asleep, Arthur still spoke softly, at a peace he wouldn’t disturb.
“I did some reading,” he said, “on your Internet machine.”
He always worded it that way on purpose, because it made Merlin laugh. And sure enough, the corner of Merlin’s mouth tugged up now, unable to help itself.
“Yeah?” Merlin murmured.
Arthur’s hand came back, warm and broad, stroking down Merlin’s bicep then tucking itself into the crook of his arm, which Merlin loosened, just for him.
“There are miracles in your world which I can scarcely fathom. Beyond science, beyond magic. I should not have disparaged these things.”
His voice was a tight whisper. And Merlin knew what he was thinking, because Merlin had wept, still staggered, sometimes, at it all. At the old fear of winter and the way it fouled the lungs; each time he took a pill to brush a pain away; on sunny days in clear streets by calm waters when he remembered friends dead or dying of cholera or typhus or diphtheria or or or—
Merlin covered Arthur’s hand with his own. “Not just my world,” he said.
“Yet another miracle you’ve shown me,” said Arthur.
Merlin turned to face him; careful, Arthur bent his head and pressed their foreheads together. Warm, a stickiness to his skin from sweating his fever down; alive and uncomfortable and real and understanding things no one but Merlin remembered anymore: a hope too huge for words.
tagged last week by @chiralcuckoo, thank you very much, and I. finally have a WIP in store ... or two.
↬↬↬ Rather From Her Fingers, Dearest Though She Was, She Never Saw Me at My Brightest
It was noon in Camelot, and Gwen was brushing rags over Arthur’s face. It had been days, and he was still pale and green-skinned, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. The pain kept him up at night, and Gwen and Merlin and Gaius had been taking turns watching over him at night as he cried out in pain. His face was hot with fever, and he was curled into himself, shivering. It was silent in his room.
She sat in the wooden chair he kept at his desk, which he had pulled out for her many a time when she would dine with him, after Merlin had persuaded the guards away for the night; he lay in his four-poster bed, with blankets piled upon him to keep away the chill. His hair was plastered to his forehead, damp with sweat. She swiped at his face, and dunked the rag in the cold water again.
Between them, there was the terrible knowledge of what had happened, and the thing in the middle. Gaius had said the dagger was enchanted to cause terrible pain. Gwen remembered Morgana’s face when Arthur had jumped up: the brittle anger shattering into sharp, wide-eyed horror. Half a second of regret had splashed across Morgana’s face, and then disappeared as quickly as it came as Uther roared Guards!
Arthur moaned, shifting. “Shh,” Gwen soothed, smoothing a hand over his hair. She winced at the wet feeling, sighed, and immediately regretted it. The room stank. Arthur hadn’t been able to get out of bed for a bath, and the rankness of the linens had been making itself known for, at the very least, a few days now.
Gwen allowed herself to spare a thought for Morgana, chained in cold iron down to her ankles in her rooms now. She wondered if Uther had even allowed her a bath; if he’d given her a maid to care for her in Gwen’s absence.
It was cruel of her to leave her dearest friend behind. She knew it. But she didn’t want to see Morgana and remember the way she’d screeched out spells to throw back the guards; the way Gwen had watched the ensuing fight in increasing terror. She allowed herself to think back on it, just for a moment, and remembered that foam had gathered at the corners of Morgana’s mouth; that she, Guinevere, Morgana’s best and dearest friend, had dealt the killing blow, so to speak. Morgana had gone for Leon, and Gwen had reached for the nearest object—a metal plate—dived over the table, and struck her.
Morgana had gone down easily, easier than Gwen had thought she would. Leon had crawled backwards from her prone form, uncharacteristically fearful, and Gwen had heaved in pockets of air. She didn’t remember the guards slamming cold iron on her: she’d heard it in whispers from the servants, tip-toeing around the palace, avoiding her soft steps on the stone floors. Merlin had grabbed her arm and taken her away, holding her close to him as she tried to drag in gasps of air. She’d thought he’d be at Arthur’s side. She had been deliriously grateful he had been at hers instead.
The door creaked open, breaking Gwen out of her thoughts. She shuddered at the sudden chill in the air. “Nothing’s changed,” Gwen said dejectedly. It was no doubt Merlin, here to remind her of their shift change.
He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t come closer to offer comfort. Gwen stood, keeping her hand and eyes on Arthur. She hesitated, then knelt down to press her lips to his temple. She lifted her hand from his skin and wiped it on her dressed. Just as she was turning away, he murmured, “Guinevere,” sounding it out. Gwen-e-vere. He had that strange way of saying names, she thought fondly. Hers and Merlin’s.
She turned, the words on the tip of her tongue, only to be faced not with Merlin, but with the lady knight who had come to Camelot a little over a year ago.
↬↬↬ Found in Forgotten Fields of Flaxen (inspired by "Untitled" (Treasonous) by @thefollow-spot, AKA Ynnealay on AO3
The noises were no longer pre-bruise blunt, like Arthur knew blows being delivered to sound. No, they had turned wet, and sharp. Bone being broken.
The cave had been eerily silent when Arthur, Gwaine, and Lancelot had walked in. Arthur did not like the quiet. It unsettled him, even in the castle. Somehow, Merlin's endless chatter had begun to help him relax. Still, he found himself preferring the silence to the wet, sharp sounds of bones breaking. And he would always prefer the sound of Merlin's prattle to Merlin's silence, because a silent Merlin either meant Merlin was angry with Arthur, or that Arthur had done something wrong. For example, he had been horribly unsure of himself the past week, all because Merlin spent his time doing his job instead of talking Arthur's ear off.
It was a strange thing, but what was stranger was Lancelot, who was always so calm, so put-together, so noble ... and his uncle, thoroughly senseless against the cave wall. The screaming had long since stopped, and Merlin was unconscious in Arthur's arms, his already-loose shirt hanging off of him worse than usual, his ribs sticking out of his skin like arrows, and blood drying in pools at the corners of his bleeding lips.
The screaming had long since stopped, and Gwaine was by Arthur's side, gripping his arm. Arthur could hear both their hearts beating in tandem, ba-dum-ba-dum-badum-badum-b'dum-b'dum-b'd—and he could also hear the wet sounds of injury, so different to a beating. The thump-thump-thump of bruising was nowhere to be found; in its place was sh-crack! sh-crack! shrck! shrk! shrck-shrk-shrck-shrk-shcrack! sh-crack! sh-crack! and it was no longer punctuated by screaming, because of Lancelot.
Selfless, noble, loving Lancelot. Arthur was never letting him near Merlin again.
“Lancelot,” Arthur snapped, “that’s enough.”
Lancelot paused, glaring over his shoulder. Merlin trembled minutely and Arthur squeezed him tightly. Never again, never again; it didn't matter that whoever would do this to Merlin deserved torture, it only mattered that Lancelot would carry it out, and like this. For weeks, Merlin had been missing. For weeks, they had been searching, and searching, and searching, and finally: this cave, where they had found him, nearly starved of life. His wrists were flute-like, his fingers splitting red at the knuckles. Knowing him, he had probably fought back.
Gwaine had noticed the small shiver. He ripped his cape off with a flourish and wrapped it around Merlin, entrapping Arthur's arms as well.
It was unlike Lancelot to be so angry; he was unrecognisable to Arthur in his wrath. He was like a rabid dog, with drool dribbling from its foaming mouth. Gwaine stepped closer to Arthur, placing a hand to the small of his back. Arthur remembered last night, the three of them in his bed, Gwen in-between them, all worried about Merlin. What if he's dead? Gwen had whispered, stroking Arthur's hair, his head nestled under her chin. Gwaine, on her left, clenched his hands into fists on Arthur's back. Don't say that, he said. Don't put it out into the world.
Could Arthur even blame Lancelot for being so angry?
↬↬↬ HEATHERS WIP UNDER THE CUT BECAUSE IT IS 2K WORDS BUT I'M SHARING IT ANYWAY. chiralcuckoo this is for you. and also for my friend Lily but she is not on Tumblr so she's never going to see this one. However this is not the full thing; I do not have the energy to indent my billions of paragraphs in the 3K version. one day i'll come out with the zombie apocalypse fic and the full version of this one ...
TAGGING: @thefollow-spot @waterhorseyblues-ao3 @chiralcuckoo @liviapeleia (please work. I can't tell if that one will work.) @aemelia @fictivecircle and ummm ... Literally any other merlin writers who wanna join in. And anyone else, honestly. join! join! join!
The first thing J.D. did when he woke up was check for the blue ribbon under his pillow, as was his custom since the second time Veronica had climbed into his window. It wasn't there. He bolted up and was hit by a sudden bout of vertigo. He pressed his hand to his side and wondered why he wasn't wearing his coat, which was a weird thought because he'd just woken up, and he didn't usually wear his coat to bed. Why was his hand at his side again? Oh, right—he'd been shot. Wait, what? It was ... it was the first day of September. And J.D. had spent the last few days in bed, dreading the same old routine of going to school, punching someone, getting detention, repeat for a six weeks, and move to a new town.
But it wasn't supposed to be the first of September. It was supposed to be the twenty-fourth of November, and he'd gotten shot. In the side. Through the trench-coat he always wore. He looked down at his hands, which were clear of soot and blood and were somehow whole instead of grains of ash. He was supposed to be dead, blown to bits like his mom.
Jesus Christ. He wasn't dead. Why wasn't he dead? He wondered if he was in hell. Would serve him right for hurting Veronica like that; for almost blowing up a whole school and killing three people. Well, they'd kinda deserved it, but it was the principle of things. Killing two people and tricking someone else into killing a third, especially tricking Veronica ... was there a special circle of hell reserved for murderers? He couldn't remember if Dante had said there was.
He went through the facts in his head. There was no blue ribbon under his pillow. He was supposed to be dead. He was alive. He ... was in his bed in the rental in Sherwood, Ohio. He wasn't dead. Was this some sort of purgatory?
Maybe you went back in time. He snorted. Like Marty McFly? No way. There was no way. And anyway, Marty McFly hadn't tried to kill ... Jesus. How many kids were in Westerberg? Psycho trench-coat kid was starting to sound a little more accurate than he'd thought. He'd tried to kill people. He had killed people.
Wow. Maybe he was in hell, if hell was his own guilt.
"Hey, pop!" J.D. jumped at the sound of his dad's voice. Yeah, this was definitely hell. All eternity with dear ol' dad. "Get down here! You're late."
And probably an infinite amount of Lone Star beer cases. Christ on a goddamned cracker, this was turning out great. If he killed himself again, would God-slash-the-Devil-or-whoever-was-keeping-him-here bring him back just so he could relive his sad, ugly, miserable life over and over again? Amazing! He'd get to rehash years of Big Bud Dean. Jesus.
J.D. sighed. No point in dragging it out. He might as well get out and live in hell. It was what he deserved for what he'd done: hurting Veronica, killing people, killing himself ... Oh, who was he kidding. Mostly for hurting Veronica. She must have been some sort of angel sent straight from God himself to test J.D. or something, and obviously he'd failed. So now this was his punishment: live in an eternal cycle of Big Bud Dean, guns, and school, all alone, without her.
"Coming!" he shouted. He was sort of considering blowing up the school again. He was in hell, anyway. Why not? That was sort of the shtick, right?
He tabled the explosion stuff for another time, and instead changed out of his shirt like he'd done the last time. Unlike just before he'd nearly blown up Westerberg, he had no blue ribbon to tie around his wrist and wear under his coat. Shame. Veronica was kinda the only thing that kept him sane.
Well, he didn't really have to. Since these weren't real people. His dad, for one, was alive; he was pretty sure when he'd left with the explosives hidden in his inner coat pockets, Big Bud was passed out on the couch, snoring. So he didn't really need that ribbon, did he?
No, but it would have been nice to have Veronica with him. Even though she didn't deserve to be in hell. Veronica deserved the best of things; a happy life, a palace, a rich lawyer of a husband. Veronica deserved someone who wouldn't lose it and try shooting her.
He stopped in his tracks as he pulled his boots on. He'd tried to kill her. Jesus Christ, what kind of—why?
Veronica shouldn't be in hell. And he didn't deserve that blue ribbon. He wondered if it would survive the explosion that he hadn't. If Veronica would dig it out of the ashes and think to herself that he'd kept it because he really had loved her. He'd planned to wear that ribbon to the coffin. Well, it had happened, just a little earlier than he had expected. Not really, though. Before Veronica, he hadn't really had any thoughts about his future. He made his way to the door, looking out the window and ignoring his dad on the couch, having a beer at seven in the morning. He was going to go to jail a few times and probably kill himself in a motorcycle accident where he crashed into a car. That was just what guys like him were destined for. But Veronica had made him think he was meant for something more, something better.
He supposed whether it was any 'better' was subject to opinion. But hey, at least he wasn't dragging her down with him. At least ... at least she would get to go to Harvard, or Brown, or something, and marry some lawyer who ran a firm called Johnson & Johnson, who would bring in enough money that Veronica would never have to do anything except be happy ever again. Although Veronica didn't strike him as some stay-at-home mom or something. She wanted to go to college for more than just meeting a man; she wanted to learn. She had a future, and J.D. didn't, and she was going to thrive.
The sky was not the color of seven in the morning. It was way too bright. No, this was ... the color of at-least-eleven-something-in-the-morning. Fuck.
"Bye, son," he called, high-tailing it out the door to jump on his motorbike. He didn't really know why he cared, since he was in hell. Force of habit? Anyway, he made it to Westerberg while singing Rise Above by Black Flag under his breath. He'd sped by car after car, half-hoping not to get run over but also half-hoping that someone would get mad enough and go after him. Unfortunately, no one did, and he made it there relatively unharmed. He locked his bike at the stand, and tied his helmet to the handle, and walked into the school.
The guy in the office had no plaque or tag stating his name and credentials, so J.D. didn't bother to remember it. He looked at J.D. quizzically as he walked in, and talked in a monotone kind of voice. His voice kinda reminded J.D. of a bee buzzing around. He handed J.D. his schedule, said, "Try not to make this a repeat occurrence," and let J.D. on his merry way.
He'd missed the first homeroom of the year, whatever, physics, calculus, oh, look, something to thank God for, English ... great, he was off to gym. Thanks, God.
It went by in a blur of sweat and silence. First day of the school year and Coach Ripper, whose name J.D. only remembered because it reminded him of Jack the Ripper, and by association Jack London, was having them run the mile. He imagined Veronica kissing him outside of the gym room, pulling him down to her height and pressing their lips together. That was the only thing that got him through the class: him, Veronica, and other sweat-inducing strategies.
He was glad he'd worn his coat even through Ripper's glares.
He wished she would climb through his window again, and they would make it routine, again. The second-second time around, he could untie the ribbon on her head and toss it on the floor, and when she left, giggling, through the window again, he could pick it up, look out the window, and see her getting in her car. And he could look down fondly at it and wrap it three times around his wrist, and in the night, he could tuck it under his pillow and grip it when he would wake up—from nightmares, or from Bud slamming the door, or when she would climb through his window again.
He walked out the door of the boy's locker room, thanking whatever was controlling this hellscape that it wasn't to jeering and calls of fag!
He pulled his coat around himself, striding down the long hallways, which were filled with students whispering to each other about homework, essays, Ms. Fleming—oh God, her. Jesus. If he was her kid, he'd either have killed himself a lot earlier than seventeen, or moved out quickly too.
Lunch could not come quickly enough. For a while, he debated whether or not he should go out and eat at the 7-Eleven a little ways from the school, but ultimately decided against it. Besides, hell wasn't really where you went for a reprieve: he doubted he would even be allowed out of the school. So he chose a table at the very edge of the cafeteria, where no one else was sitting, and chowed down on his grilled cheese sandwich. He remembered this one. It reminded him of dinner with his mom around his ninth birthday. He'd been begging her for it ever since he'd seen an advertisement for it on the TV at some diner he couldn't remember the name of. She'd caved a few weeks before and promised him that she would make it.
The cafeteria was a whole lot quieter than it had been just a few moments ago. He looked around, confused. Oh, right, the Heathers. He rolled his eyes, taking another bite of the sandwich, and nearly bit into his finger, rudely brought out of his memories by the sight of the Heathers, yes, as he'd expected, and a fourth girl, dressed in blue. His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. No. No way.
The Heathers made their way to their table, smack-dab in the middle of the cafeteria, and she trailed behind them, grinning widely. Someone said her name, shocked, and J.D. mouthed it to himself. He was paying attention this time—last time, he'd seen the Heathers, rolled his eyes, and gone back to his lunch. This time, he saw her, and his breath quickened. He'd thought to himself that morning This is hell: a world without her.
No, this was worse. A world with her, a world where J.D. knew what was going to happen, where he knew he was going to kill the both of them in his attempt to make things better. A world with Veronica Sawyer, sitting and laughing with the Heathers, not knowing a single thing that was going to happen.
He took hold of his tray and stood up, almost robotic in his movement. He slung his bag over his shoulder, walked over to the garbage cans, and threw out his food. Then he walked out of the cafeteria. If he couldn't get out of this place, he'd just throw himself into the bathroom while it was empty and scream his lungs out. He just couldn't bear to see her smiling.
“You are such a girl, Merlin,” Arthur drawled when they pulled away, pretending that his heartbeat wasn’t racing faster than a herd of stampeding horses. “All the power in the world and you use it to grow fruit without seeds.”
Merlin’s eyes were blown wide and dilated, and Arthur watched appreciatively as he gaped soundlessly. Dear lord, he looked edible, his pale skin flushed and apple-cheeked, swollen lips stained red in a way that had nothing to do with cherry juice.
“I saved your sorry arse more times than I can count with that girly magic,” he retorted. “Even before the questing beast. What do you think happened with Sophia? Or Valiant? The dragon said—”
“The dragon?!”
“Erm,” Merlin started to look shifty-eyed and panicked again. And in that moment Arthur decided that whatever magic and dragons could wait because he had priorities right now, and wiping that look off Merlin’s face was one of them. Preferably with another kiss.
Tagging: @bumblebearr (no pressure <3) and anyone else interested
Cocooned in the sweat-slick linens of the physician’s chambers, Arthur realises the world has shrunk down to two points. The inescapable bone-deep ache that pounds through his body, and Merlin’s wide-eyed gaze peering down at him, concern so disproportionate that it is simply ridiculous.
Don’t be a girl’s petticoat, Arthur wants to say. Any more of that doe-eyed fawning and your eyes will fall straight out of your face. But his thoughts trip over themselves until they splutter out, and words on his tongue twist together until he can neither make out head nor tail of them.
“Merlin,” is all he manages instead. Mer-lin. The name on his tongue, soft and sweet like a crumb of honeycake, before dissipating into the air.
A cool cloth smooths over the sticky skin of his forehead in response, and he feels Merlin’s long fingers through the dampness. He presses into it hungrily. Even through the fabric, the touch satiates a pit he did not know existed, and opens up a gaping craving for more. Each stroke is full of surety, yet slow and gentle, but Merlin’s mouth has no qualms running off in the opposite direction as he fusses.
“It’s a wonder you survived this long with this amount of sheer stupidity,” he rants, face red. Arthur wants to raise his hand to Merlin’s cheek to feel the flush of exertion. “Oh no Merlin, I’ll just saunter out into the snow and chill with my sopping wet smallclothes for a dare. Don’t be silly, I won’t get sick. You really are an idiot aren’t you?”
Arthur frowns, he’d do anything to soothe Merlin’s agitation in this moment. “Of course,” he slurs out, and Merlin’s countenance turns even more stormy, something he didn’t even know that could be possible.
“Oh, don’t you get all sweet and docile with me,” Merlin snarls, but Arthur can hear the electrical thrum of worry underneath the anger. It’s funny how the fuzzy miasma of illness can bring in a different sort of clarity. Coupled with the gentle hand on his brow, Arthur suddenly hears all of this for what it is. He kicks himself for not seeing it sooner.
“Love you too,” he says dreamily, before ignoring Merlin’s ungainly gawp and collapsing into blissful unconsciousness.
Merlin has learned to love Arthur’s armour the way he loves the man safely hidden in its carapace. How can he not, when it is all that lies between a fatal stroke and a broken body?
And so he spends sleepless nights hunched over, murmuring desperate spells over the silver plates. The squires tell him of the best ways to hammer out each dent. The perfect oil to brush over the grey steel. All he must do to prepare for the eve of battle.
What they don’t tell him is the Sisyphean amount of mental effort it takes. Now, as Merlin tightens the well-oiled straps, his fingers tremble at the reminder of Arthur’s fragile mortality. He fumbles when he secures the couter to the breastplate, as he feels how his heartbeat hammers in time with Arthur’s just a few inches below. He prays that today will not be the last time it does.
The serf fights a lonely war in his mind before his sovereign steps into battle, and it is just as intense. Merlin must brace himself to let go. To come to terms with the fact that there are still battles Arthur must fight alone, despite all that Merlin has done for him. But it is hard to remember that, when the curve of his palm slides into place so snugly, at where Arthur has it pressed into the swell of the breastplate.
“Don’t be such a fish wife,” Arthur flashes Merlin a glint of a smile, then runs a thumb comfortingly over his knuckles. Merlin never wants it to end. “I’ll be fine. God, I’ll never go into battle again if it means I’ll have to deal with this much of your worrying.”
Merlin stays silent. This is a vow that can never be kept, as Arthur is not his to keep. The moment Arthur steps out of the tent, into the vast terrain, Merlin knows he will lose him. He will have to give him back to the kingdom they have both sworn their lives to, hand him over to the roar of the thousands of soldiers and watch him disappear behind hardened eyes, swallowed up by the mantle of kingship.
But for now, Camelot holds its breath, the lull before the storm. Merlin steals a few more moments; he drinks in the curve of Arthur’s paldron, the way it curls tight over the shoulder blades and palms the smooth slope of the vambraces.
It’s not enough, it’s never enough, but it’s what he’ll have to hold on to for now.
Arthur is a man of action. Not surprising, considering what he is raised for. He takes to most of his problems with a sword, his fists or on memorable occasions, a mace.
But most problems, not all. Sometimes, Merlin wonders if it is really a coping mechanism or if Uther had intentionally beaten the pathological need to please into him. A weapon that turns itself inside out to obey your orders can never turn against you.
A carelessly mentioned request from Uther is enough to get Arthur to twist and contort himself impossibly to fulfil it. Bullheaded stubbornness crumbles away into pursed lips and pale faces at the face of rejection. Princes do not grovel, but what Arthur does is a near thing, as he lays out his achievements at the dais in careful supplication. Every time he reports back from a hunt or patrol, he crawls back into himself, his response snapping from fight to fawn. Merlin can do nothing but watch, his heart hurting all the more for it.
As Arthur’s birthday creeps closer, Arthur trains doubly hard and takes on twice as many patrols, as if to apologise for his own existence. The tension in the air thickens, marked by the increasingly miserable set of his jaw. But anticipating the blow doesn’t stop the axe from falling.
Now, Arthur’s hands are clenched against his shirt, arms wrapped around himself like they keep the remains of his dignity in place, neck still bent in supplication to whatever accusatory statement his father had delivered. Hunched at the edge of his bed, he looks tiny. Merlin can almost see the young boy curled up on castle floors, riding out the aftershocks of Uther’s rage.
Merlin gently tugs off Arthur’s boots, then joins Arthur at the dip of the mattress, so they touch knee to thigh. He rubs slow circles over the small of Arthur’s back and when Arthur doesn’t resist, Merlin pulls him flush. Arthur’s nose buried in the crook of his neck, like the proximity can fill the hollow spaces Arthur gouged out for Uther.
One day, Arthur will unlearn the fear of inadequacy, will forget about hanging on for each minimal scrap of approval and will step over Uther’s legacy. For now, Merlin just turns his face to Arthur’s hair and wills that his affection is enough to replace what was drained out.
