“Merlin, please drop the knife.”
Merlin shakes his head, grip tight on the knife’s hilt. The muffled sounds of the city awakening permeate through the windows–the rumble of the vehicles, hushed conversations from early risers, and the din of bodegas pushing their roll-up doors to start their day blend to create a euphony of life, but all Merlin can hear is the rumble of the forest, the schwip of feet sliding on soft soil, the flutter of birds leaving their nests, the clatter of armour falling to the ground—
The figure shifts, and in the darkness, Merlin can make out its tousled head of hair–soaked in sweat, stuck to brows laid in gold–and big, broad shoulders donning Camelot red, and when— what—
“Who are you?!” Merlin grits out, forcing himself to focus on the weight of the knife in his hands. Perfectly balanced, just as the man who sold it to him in the Philippines promised. The holes on the hilt dig into the meat of his palms, and Merlin relishes the sensation, willing it to keep him present and not in the forest, with the grey sky and the blood and the goddamn lake and Arthur, Arthur–
“Arthur. It’s Arthur.” The figure steps towards him, and Merlin raises the knife higher. “Merlin... Please. It’s me, Arthur,” the voice begs, and gods, it scratches the feelings Merlin has buried deep, deep inside his mind so well, but–
“Arthur’s not returned. You’re lying.” Merlin rebuts, and the figure seems to slump at that.
“Merlin…”
“No.” Merlin insists, “Arthur’s not returned. I know he hasn’t. I know. It’s been fifteen hundred fucking years, and Arthur’s not returned, and I would know, because I’m the only one who’s left, I’m the only person who’s still of Albion, so I would know because I’ve done nothing but wish and wait and wait and wait for him to come back and he hasn’t–”
A hand grips Merlin’s wrists, making him drop his knife, and Merlin screams, thrashing wildly at his attacker, his heart jackhammering in his ears. The stranger tightens their grip, closing in, and Merlin’s heart jumps into his throat. He’s convinced that if this stranger comes closer, it might well jump out of his skin and crash into the floor. He twists, hoping for an escape, which rapidly becomes futile as the stranger tightens his hold on Merlin’s wrists.
They close in, and Merlin’s breath quickens. His wrists get pinned to the stranger’s chest, and at this point, Merlin is half-expecting a gun to be pressed to his side or for a blow to come to his head. Bafflingly, the stranger only makes a shushing noise, repeatedly whispering, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry, Merlin,” above him, sounding remorseful.
Merlin had half a mind to wonder, “Why is this stranger sorry?” before he continues to thrash, shoulders bucking. “LET GO OF ME!" he screams. "Let go, let go, letgoletgoletgo!! You’re lying! I don’t even know you!”
Merlin lifts his right knee, intent on hitting the stranger in the groin, but the figure’s faster, dodging out of the way in the nick of time. Merlin tries to twist again, sharper this time—dropping his weight, wrenching sideways, letting panic lend him strength. He only gets so far before the grip on his wrists tightens again, and tears spring to his eyes from the pressure. Unrelenting, Merlin arches away from the stranger holding him hostage, before driving his skull forward.
He hears a satisfying crack from the stranger’s nose, making them release him in favour of clutching at their face, and Merlin wastes no time, bolting out of his bedroom door. His panic carries him out into the living room, then the foyer, and finally, into the slow light of dawn.
-
Arthur swears, hearing the pounding of Merlin’s footsteps reach the foyer. He scrambles up from the floor, still clutching his broken nose, and does his best to reach his panicked boyfriend before he gets out of their apartment without causing further injury to himself.
The front door slams, and Arthur swears again, longer this time, circling back to their bedroom to search for his phone. I’ll need backup this time, he thinks, feeling miserable for it.
Once outside, Arthur continuously dials their friends—Maddy from the book club, old Miguel from their favourite bodega, Abigail from Merlin’s work—as he runs through the street, head swivelling for that mop of curly hair.
After the first quarter hour of fruitless searching alone, Arthur slumps on a bench, exhausted. He brings his head forward in between his knees, and, wretchedly, cannot stop the tears forming and falling from his eyes.
“Gods, Merlin,” he whispers to himself, “Please come back. Safe and sound, please…”
He looks up at the sky, feeling miserable for all one thousand, five hundred and twenty years, and with no words to convey it. The sky is light now, but big, grey clouds have also rolled in from the west. “...And soon.”
“It’s going to rain, you bloody idiot.”
return for @merthurmicrofic | 837 words tags: modern au, angst, hurt no comfort, nightmares, dissociation, 3rd pov
