It was an accident, at first. The smudge of a finger against the glass; a smear of blood.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, a shadow. He stopped and stared at the mirror, watching the amorphous darkness resolve into a shape.
Merlin. Kneeling at the dais. Gold light blazing from his eyes as he bowed his head and accepted Arthur’s crown.
+
The mirror had been a gift, after a fashion; a token of the alliance between himself and Annis. Privately, Arthur wasn’t sure whether she meant it as an insult or a compliment—it certainly couldn’t be said to be in good taste.
“Think of it this way, sire,” Merlin chirped, as he helped Arthur drag the monstrosity up to his rooms. “At least something in here will be uglier than you.”
“Very funny,” It was supposed to be magic, too, though it had shown no signs of it. “That’s what I have you for.”
In the corner, the gilt edges were less obvious, and Arthur mostly forgot about the mirror until a chance encounter in the forest left his shoulder torn, his fingers slick with blood. He limped back to his chambers after the battle, a worried Merlin trailing in his wake, and his hand brushed against the glass in passing—a momentary touch that shouldn’t have changed anything.
Then: the shadow, subtle and sinister as smoke. And suddenly, everything was different.
+
“Merlin.” There were hands on his shoulder, gentle, cleaning and staunching the wound. “Do you think it tells the future?”
“What, sire?” Merlin, distracted, was frowning over his stitches, looking as unlike an evil sorcerer as it was possible to get. “The Sphinx of Astaroth? I shouldn’t think so.”
“No, you idiot. I mean the mirror.”
“Oh.” He glanced at it, and Arthur held his breath. “Doesn’t seem likely. Unless it’s showing me what happens this time tomorrow, when I have to do this all over again.”
+
The next night, it was the same ceremony. Banners on the walls, gold with a black triskelion. Merlin on his knees. This time, he saw what came afterwards: the knights in their armour, bowing before the throne, one after the other pledging their swords to him.
“Long live the king!” shouted Sir Lancelot.
“Long live the king!” shouted Sir Gwaine.
Arthur wished he could feel surprise at this defection, but they had always been more Merlin’s knights than his. Small wonder, then, that if Merlin turned from him, his men would follow. Small wonder that Arthur would fail them all.
+
And yet—Merlin seemed ordinary.
He tidied Arthur’s chambers the way he always did (very badly). He polished Arthur’s armour the way he always did (until it shone). He looked at Arthur like he was crazy when Arthur, driven to the point of desperation, asked him: “Do you ever think about being king? Of Camelot, I mean.”
“Not usually, no,” Merlin said, raising one eyebrow. “As far as I’m concerned, that’s your job, and welcome to it. Can you imagine how busy I’d be if I had to be king as well?”
So, the mirror was wrong. It had to be. Perhaps it was designed to drive men mad, to torture them with visions of what could have been. Perhaps it merely showed them the thing they most feared to see.
Regardless, he had Merlin move it to the servant’s alcove and drape a sheet over it, unwilling to be tempted into further doubt, and he told himself it was a trick, meant to torment him. The best thing he could do was put it from his mind.
+
And then, there was the magic.
+
If Arthur hadn’t been watching Merlin, he would have missed it. A branch, falling, meant little on its own, but the flash of gold in his eyes was unmistakeable.
He said nothing in the moment. The bandits were dispatched, the horses recovered, and Arthur rode hard for the citadel walls, feeling the shadow in the mirror chasing at his heels.
Inside, he dragged Merlin after him. This was a common enough occurrence that no one remarked on it; even Merlin didn’t seem inclined to challenge him, at least until they reached the annex where the mirror was stored.
“Hold out your hand,” Arthur demanded, drawing his dagger. Merlin stopped, blanched, and Arthur grabbed his wrist, drawing a bead of bright red blood from the tip of his finger.
“Arthur, what—?”
“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur said, and pressed their joined hands against the glass.
+
They were fighting back to back in the woods; sword and magic.
They were riding at the head of an army, dressed in red and gold.
They were in the throne room of Camelot, kneeling together, Merlin’s eyes aglow as he joined their hands with a skein of golden light. As Arthur watched, Geoffrey lowered a crown onto Merlin’s head, identical to Arthur’s, and they turned towards each other in unison, reciting the hand-fasting vows with one voice.
This was the part that Arthur hadn’t seen, the part that had been hidden from him but which the addition of Merlin’s blood made abruptly clear:
The future he had seen hadn’t been his downfall.
Instead, he had been witness to their wedding.
BINGO PROMPTS: Festivities & Gifts | Knights of the Round Table | BAMF Merthur | Magic Reveal
“True love’s kiss was meant to work.” Merlin stared at Arthur, laying preternaturally still on the makeshift cot. He ran his hands over his own face, tension, fear, taut in every tired muscle.
When Gwen spoke, still half-bent over Arthur’s pale face, her voice was shaky, but determined. “Merlin, I think—you’re right. True love’s kiss will work.”
He looked up at her from beneath his wrecked fringe, and found her looking at him meaningfully.
“But it didn’t work. You kissed him, and it didn’t work.” Panic was rising in him in tandem with his magic, swirling restless and uncontrollable under his skin.
“Because I’m not—Merlin, I’m not his true love. We’re—not. Like that. I mean, he’s lovely, of course! And I could love him, possibly, I’m sure, um, I mean, anyone could, but. I don’t think. Well. I think we need to try… someone else.”
She stared at him even more meaningfully.
He stared back. “Who?? He doesn’t have some secret lover he’s courting on the side, I can promise you that. If he did he’d be in a better mood, for one. And he’s so obvious when he’s hiding something, anyway.”
“Yes,” Gwen said, now sounding strained, as if Merlin was a hardship that she was enduring. “He is. Incredibly obvious. Which is why—” She took a deep breath, looked away, looked back. “You need to kiss him.”
“What.” Merlin was on his feet, without even being aware of standing. His heart was thundering. He stared at Arthur, at his blank face, deathly still. “What,” he repeated. But he could feel it, the truth of it; the magic was already urging him, pressing him forward. He reached for Arthur’s arm, helpless; lightning sparked in his fingertips with the first touch, and he bent down before he could think it through.
Warmth. Breath.
And the hand that had lain limp on the pallet reached up, weakly, fingers curling in his hair to pull him closer, as Arthur’s mouth moved against his.
“What are you doing?” Arthur asked, leaning on the back of Merlin’s chair.
His servant tutted in annoyance as he glanced over his shoulder at his king. “I’m fixing your cape,” He explained, holding up the bundle of red material in his hands for Arthur to see. “I noticed a small hole in it earlier.”
A mocking tone filled Arthur’s words as he flopped himself down on the chair next to Merlin’s. “I didn’t know you could sew. Isn’t that a skill for girls?”
The fire roaring in the hearth was sending a warm glow over everything in the room, and Arthur tried not to notice the way it bounced off the sharpness of Merlin’s cheekbones and the curve of his ears.
“My mother taught me when I was a child.” Merlin explained, and Arthur picked up on the fond tone laced into his words. “She always told me that if I could thread a needle, then I could fix anything.”
A snort made its way out of Arthur’s mouth before he could stop it. When Merlin threw one of his dissatisfied scowls in his direction, Arthur held up his hands in mock surrender and said, “Sorry, didn’t mean to offend.”
Merlin started gathering the material up in his lap and went to stand up. “I could just get the royal seamstress to fix it for you–”
Arthur reached out a hand to stop him from moving any further. “Merlin, I’m only messing with you.” He nodded to the folds of material that elegantly cascaded down from Merlin’s arms like a fountain of the finest red wine. “Please, carry on.”
Merlin hesitated for a moment, but then sat back down in the chair, lifting his needle to rethread the cotton through the eye.
[293 words]
Day 2: Thread
for Merlinktober
Thank you to @misunderstood-shadowling for pointing out to me that I can indeed write for Merlinktober <3
@merthurmicrofic
prompt: kneel
AU in which Merlin is a powerful sorcerer in a neighboring kingdom. Arthur stops by in full force to suggest an alliance.
1.7k words TW: suggestive.
Arthur's hard-soled boots echoed throughout the quiet hall. Gawking figures in elaborate dress filled the chamber, whispering in hushed tones as the famed King of Camelot strode ever-forward. Their voices didn't deter Arthur's focus, his head held high above the crowd, each step forward a determined answer to their question, "What is he doing here?"
Arthur was here for one thing: a certainty. He needed a guarantee that Emrys, leader of the free mages, would not come to harm Camelot. In a sense, it was a social call -- but some showboating could be afforded. Arthur's knights walked in step several feet behind him, sure to afford the king as much grandeur as he deserved while also displaying his show of military force.
The hall of onlookers receded as Arthur focused on the figure in front of him, languidly relaxing on a grand throne: The Great Emrys, draped in beautiful blue robes of exquisite embroidery. Arthur thought that he would be more intimidating, but the man's presence seemed... tame. Docile, even. His eyes betrayed no sense of urgency, slowly blinking at Arthur's approaching frame. Arthur felt miffed by the dismissal.
The King of Camelot paused at the first step of the raised platform to Emrys' throne, aware of the line of demarcation between respect and incivility. He inhaled quickly, preparing his memorized speech. "Lord Emrys, I am Arthur Pendr-"
Emrys raised a single finger, corking Arthur's voice in his throat. Arthur went to raise his hand to his neck, but his muscles refused. He was frozen in place. Panic replaced all sense as magic took hold of Arthur's body.
Emrys moved briefly, but only to adjust his legs to fold over one another. Arthur would furrow his brow if he had bodily autonomy. Emrys exhaled, as if bored. "I know exactly who you are, Arthur." His voice sounded sweet and thick like honey to Arthur's ears, undeniably amplified through magic. "I could sense you the moment your feet left Camelot. I know you, and I know why you're here."
Arthur's brow began to sweat. He hoped one of the knights behind him was unchained by Emrys' spell, and could shove a sword down the magicians throat--
"You're here for me," Emrys stated. "Of course."
If Arthur could speak, he would use his lifetime of practiced political speech to run laps around Emrys' lack of tact. Although, Arthur noted while still frozen at the bottom of the steps, perhaps tact could be relented in the presence of power. A twinge of jealousy snuck into Arthur's mind at the ease in which Emrys could command.
"You need me to give you an assurance that I won't lay waste to your kingdom, correct?" Emrys lowered his index finger.
Arthur suddenly slumped forward, catching himself before falling face-first into the stone steps. His muscles burned an unfamiliar sting as the magic left his body. He coughed, all too aware of the hundreds of eyes upon him as he recovered.
Choking down his bile and spit, Arthur combed back his hair with a clammy hand. "In so many words... yes." Arthur paused. Emrys leaned on his hand, looking at Arthur as if he were a minor inconvenience. "And we'll do whatever it takes to gain that assurance. For Camelot."
Emrys hummed. "And why should I?" He examined his manicured nails.
Arthur's sweat turned cold against his neck. He was unused to being so blatantly disregarded, he nearly lost track of the purpose of the visit. This felt like a threat.
"Consider your next words carefully, Arthur." Emrys cooed as he flashed a warning look at him.
Arthur swallowed again, his throat dry. He was being toyed with.
"We... we should establish an alliance. I know that Camelot has not been kind to magic-users during my father's reign, but I swear to you that no more druids, mages, or magic-users will be harmed under my rule. This, I swear to you as King of Camelot." Arthur's gaze was unfaltering at Emrys' unimpressed features.
"Hmmm... tempting, but not enough." Arthur's jaw slacked with surprise.
"Then what do you want from me?" Arthur asked, voice raising. His patience was wearing thin.
"Do you really want to know?" Emrys purred as he sat up at full attention.
"Yes," Arthur demanded.
Emrys' mouth curled menacingly. "Obedience."
The word hung in the air like the ring of a church bell, clear and haunting. The knights behind him murmured and hummed. Arthur schooled his features to appear in control as his mind raced. He remained stoic, and squared his shoulders, stepping from foot to foot in discomfort. "Obedience," he echoed, voice slightly deeper.
"Yes," Emrys agreed. For the first time in their meeting, he stood, and slowly began approaching Arthur at the steps. Arthur gaped at his height as he towered over him. "Your father destroyed countless generations, all because they had the gift of magic flowing in their veins. He was weak."
Arthur bit back the instinct to defend his father's name. Emrys continued to narrate, now descending the steps.
"Weak in will, and weak in spirit. His only joy was in murdering the innocent."
Emrys stopped just a breath away, forcing Arthur's gaze at an upward angle. All of the blood in Arthur's body was pounding in his ears at the close quarters. The man smelled of cinnamon and clove -- not the blood and steel his advisors warned him of. His eyebrows were carefully manicured, the skin of his face white as porcelain, with only a quiet blush upon his cheek to separate him from a statue. Arthur's resolve was struggling, and he knew magic had nothing to do with it.
"How will you prove yourself a better man, Arthur?" Emrys whispered, near-seductively. The tone caught Arthur off guard. He was suddenly aware of his face growing warm.
The direct confrontation made Arthur's head swim, his mind growing foggy. This was far beyond his own plan for political alliance.
Emrys leaned down, past Arthur's head, lips straight to the King's ear: "Remember, Arthur. I already gave you the answer."
Arthur spoke without thinking. "Obedience," he responded. He would rather die than face his knights behind him in this moment of vulnerability. His reaction to Emrys' intimidation tactics were unfamiliar to him, and he would like to largely blame the essence of magic dripping from the Lord of the Druids -- but a very small and truthful part of Arthur's subconscious knew that he almost... enjoyed this.
"Yes, very good." Arthur ignored the sudden sensation in his trousers at the praise. "And for your first act of obedience, I have a very simple request."
Arthur waited patiently, body taut with expectation. This was a defining moment in his reign as king; whatever would come out of Emrys' lips next could mean either peace and prosperity, or war and famine for generations to come. The silence permeated the room, not a single person moved during his pause.
Stilling his frame and lifting his chin, Emrys spoke with authority: "Kneel."
The hall murmured in rising voices, some onlookers clamoring for more vengeful routes to exploit Arthur's name in an act of revenge, the knights calling for a less demeaning form of retribution; all of the voices faded as Emrys raised a thin hand to silence them.
Arthur's shoulders tensed as he felt every eye upon him. To kneel was a political declaration, to relent power to another was no small thing, and Emrys knew this. The implications of a king kneeling before his father's enemy... Arthur knew what his advisors would say. They'd rather declare war than show weakness. But the kingdom, Arthur reminded himself, was no longer his fathers'. Arthur had the power to redefine his approach, and he was going to take it -- advisors be damned.
Arthur shifted his body one stretch of muscle at a time, trying in any way to make the situation feel less one-sided as it so obviously was. His legs moved stiffly as his armor creaked in the now-silent room, the chainmail tunic clinking softly. He slowly descended, placing his sword by his side, and sunk his knees down onto the cold, unforgiving ground.
Lastly, Arthur bowed his head.
Unbeknown to Arthur, Emrys' eyebrows shot up in surprise. He was expecting all the armies of Camelot to storm his hall before he would see Arthur Pendragon kneeling before him. The sight was glorious, addicting. Emrys soaked in the view of Arthur's sun-kissed hair obscuring his eyes in reverence, as if Emrys himself were a god to be feared.
He stepped forward carefully, reaching a hand to gently coax Arthur's gaze upward. Emrys afforded himself a small stroke of the thumb against Arthur's jaw, all too selfishly. The King's eyes were piercingly blue. No magic in the world could imitate the shade and tone of Arthur's eyes -- and none could replicate the sheer pliancy of Arthur's look as he stared into Emrys' very soul. An unexpected shiver ran down his spine. In this moment of shared intimacy, he was grateful for the excessive drapery of his clothing. He subtly shifted where he stood, attempting to ease some of the discomfort between his legs.
"Good," Emrys finally said, projecting a voice of control. He retracted his hand, the heat of Arthur's cheek still burned into his fingertips. "You're smarter than you look."
Arthur, still kneeling, looked at Emrys with a gaze that held magnitudes. Fierce duty to his kingdom, shame at showing weakness, and something else that Emrys couldn't place... he snapped his eyes away from Arthur's piercing stare, and forced himself to walk back to his throne.
Arthur rose just as slowly, a small smile creeping into his features.
"Thank you, Emrys." And, to his surprise, Arthur bowed his head again.
Emrys crossed his legs tighter, his face growing warm. He waved off the King of Camelot with a lazy gesture, only daring to look at him when his back was turned in retreat.
Once the crowd had dissipated, Emrys closed himself off for the rest of the day in his chambers -- body hot with fever and mind flooded of images of Arthur Pendragon kneeling obediently at his feet.
For the @merlinmicrofic prompt "Come here" | Merlin/Arthur, general audiences, MCD (implied) | 505 words
Command, Request, Plea on AO3 | Two simple words change their meaning for Merlin, again and again.
I. Command
“Merlin. Come here.”
Merlin’s heart sank at the words. “Yes, my lord?”
“What… is this.” Arthur’s hand appeared around the changing screen, wielding a pale blue tunic.
“Did you forget how to wear it? Your arms go through the holes—”
The tunic landed across Merlin’s face. He pulled it away with a huff to see Arthur before him, chest bare—hair tousled—eyes rather startling in the sunlight—
“You’re staring, Merlin,” Arthur drawled.
Arthur watches Merlin from across the office, fingers tightening around his coffee cup. It's ridiculous, really, how someone so brilliant—someone who single-handedly salvaged their last project from complete disaster—could sit there staring at his screen like he's waiting for someone to call him out. Merlin chews on his pen cap, oblivious to Arthur's scrutiny, and when he finally exhales, it's with that telltale slump of his shoulders, like he’s convinced he doesn’t belong here. Arthur wants to shake him. Wants to tell him that he’s the smartest person in this building, that he’s the reason Arthur hasn’t lost his mind in this godforsaken job. Instead, he drops a file onto Merlin’s desk with a casual, “We both know you’re the only one who can fix this,” and walks away before Merlin can argue.
They take luncheon in the walled gardens of Camelot. Morgana loved them as a child—they were the closest she could get to the wilderness without leaving the citadel. Now, as an adult, she recognises them for what they really are: a carefully cultivated illusion, trimmed and sheared by Uther’s men to Uther’s liking; a facsimile of nature with nary a branch out of place. As a child they helped her pretend at freedom, but just like everything else in Camelot, there is no true freedom under Uther’s thumb.
She looks at the ladies dining with her and wonders if they feel just as trapped in their kingdoms; she supposes every woman must, to a degree.
But she also suspects that life under Uther is a particular kind of hell.
Lady Azneth, Princess Miriam, Lady Lucretia. All here for Arthur’s coronation as Crown Prince.
“He’ll be such a wonderful king,” Princess Miriam says eagerly. She’s a slight thing with dark hair and delicate features, and she’s clearly harbouring a crush on Arthur—one that will never come to fruition, if her kingdom’s finances are any indication.
“Well, of course,” says Lady Azneth, an older woman in a frightful olive dress. She is a long-trusted friend of Camelot. “He’s practically a miniature Uther.”
Morgana’s goblet freezes an inch from her lips.
The other women laugh and nod and pop grapes between ruby lips.
As though it’s a given.
“Right as always, Azneth,” Lady Lucretia snorts. Her blonde hair shines in the sunlight. “Arthur’s practically his twin! The same vocal inflections—“
“Body language—“ Azneth adds.
“The way he commands a room,” Miriam says dreamily.
“It’s obvious the boy worships his father,” Lucretia half-laughs, swirling her wine. Morgana feels sick.
“I’m glad of it,” Azneth says. “Uther is a strong ruler. Any boy would be lucky to have him for a father, and even more so as a figure to model himself on. Arthur does very well to mimic Uther. He will do Camelot proud.”
Morgana’s throat and wrists burn. Her stomach heaves. Angry tears prick at her eyes.
What would these ladies say if they knew Uther threw his ward in the dungeon? Would they praise Arthur‘s luck in being born to a father who never shows him any kindness?
The comparison disgusts her. But she has observed it, too. The shouts, the stubbornness. Father and son’s shared arrogance. The hatred for magic that Arthur has learned; that he imitates.
Morgana pictures Arthur throwing his daughter into the dungeons and is promptly sick in the grass.
“My lady!” They shout, alarmed. “Are you alright?”
Someone holds back her hair—probably Gwen.
“Fetch her some water!” Azneth cries.
“It’s the heat, poor thing,” Lucretia tsks.
“We should get her to the court physician,” Miriam whispers to a servant. “Go tell the king that his ward has taken ill.”
“No!” Morgana chokes out. She wipes at her mouth, panicked, and raises a hand to stop the servant. “No, there’s no need to bother the king, I assure you. I apologise for the disturbance, ladies. Sometimes the wine does not sit well with me, that is all. There is no cause for alarm.”
“Let’s get you inside where it’s cool, my lady,” Gwen says, and helps Morgana to her feet. There’s a worried furrow to her brow, but her hands are soft, her grip gentle.
The ladies watch her, concerned eyes wide and fluttering.
“I shall see you tonight,” Morgana tells them, even as she sees in their faces an Arthur she will never know—and yet it is the Arthur he shows to the world. His father, his idol. Pride and desperation in every subtle imitation. Performing for the world as his father, rather than the man Morgana knows him to be.
And even these strangers see echoes of the tyrant in him.
She hurriedly turns away from Gwen and is sick again.
(merlin microfic bc the pendragon sibling angst will not leave me tf alone)
There is always a storm in Arthur’s eyes. The blue seems to go from a serene sea to a greyish cloud. It's only sorrow that makes them cloudy.
Anger makes them icy, blazing a cold fire. Merlin would love to say it was always righteous anger, but it would be a lie. Arthur has a temper, an echo of his father.
Where he differs though, is in making amends, admitting his follies. His eyes simmer, unsure, a slow-rolling wave just off the shore. As if he fears rebuke. Another mark of Uther.
It's not only his eyes that Merlin watches. When Arthur is at his desk, working on the humdrum everyday tasks of ruling; reading missives and pleas, drafting reports—though Merlin writes them; even with his royal education Arthur struggles to spell and his handwriting is shaky—Merlin watches his brow wrinkle in concentration. In the years that have passed since he was appointed manservant, lines have begun to settle on Arthur's face, faint crow's feet around those tempestuous eyes, a wrinkle to his forehead that doesn't leave when he relaxes. Merlin thinks, privately, they only accentuate Arthur's noble features.
His profile is something to behold. Bathed in firelight, Arthur’s face is thrown into sharp relief, the angles and planes of it highlighted in red and gold. Arthur’s jaw is angular, though it's tempered by a boyish roundness his face never lost. His cheekbones aren't as prominent as Merlin’s own, but they are still noticeable, there to admire.
Merlin admires Arthur's nose, too. The regal curve, the crookedness setting him apart from any other ten-a-penny beauty. Arthur calls it imperfect, but Merlin has heated disagreements with him on that subject. It is not the nose a simpering portrait artist would draw, that much is true. It suits Arthur, makes him real and unique. Merlin adores it.
Arthur's lips draw Merlin’s eye most. They're delicate, almost feminine, although Arthur’s visage is all male. They're plush, soft-looking, though Merlin is close enough to see they are often chapped and bitten through being out in all weathers, and from the way he chews his bottom lip when he's unsure.
The storm carries through Arthur’s body. His hands, broad and calloused from years of swordplay gesticulate wildly when he speaks, though never when he's in the council chambers. He stays stiff, measured. He must, for the older councillors will not hold with displays of passion.
Passion, though, is what Arthur knows. He has never followed any cause without loud and unselfconscious dedication.
He squares broad shoulders in the face of anything, straightens his impressive stature, and faces anything head-on—for better or worse.
Arthur trusts Merlin to weather his storms. He no longer dismisses him when guilt and disappointment eat at him and he does naught but pace like a caged bear.
He allows, now and then, Merlin’s long fingers to stroke his golden locks, to soothe the squall within him.
When Arthur sleeps, Merlin perched on the bed beside him, the sea is calm.
