#schweet writes

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@merthurmicrofic | water | 50 words

Arthur wakes cradled by the low rushing of the sea; by Merlin’s fingers splayed across his chest, over his heartbeat. Protective, he thinks, but can’t remember why.

“Merlin?”

“You’re fine,” Merlin says quietly. “It wasn’t poison.”

His lips taste of salt, but Arthur can’t tell if it’s ocean or tears.

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First Lines of WIPs

Tagged by @koffeinkaos, who requested the first lines of some of my WIPs ♥️ Go ahead and cast your vote for which one you'd like me to work on next!

🌡️ An Incurable Affliction

“Are you sure you have everything you need?” Merlin asked, adjusting the buckles on Gaius’ knapsack for what was probably the dozenth time.

🐾 Puppy Love

“No,” Arthur said. “Absolutely not.”

💔 Knave of Hearts

They woke him in the dark with a hand over his mouth, the light of a torch near to blinding as it dipped too close to his face.

👻 between the shadow and the soul

“I did try to warn you,” Merlin said, when they were alone.

🔥 through the desert repenting

The first time, Merlin dies.

Consider this me tagging anyone who wants to join in!

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@merthurmicrofic | feast | 625 words

When Arthur is born, he cries for three days straight, and nothing that Gaius or the wet nurse can do will soothe him.

“He misses his mother, sire,” says Gaius—the only one who has dared to mention Queen Ygraine since her passing. Uther stares down at the boy in the crib, his own eyes red-rimmed with grief.

“He’ll have to learn to do without her,” he says.

+

Perhaps that’s where it starts. Without his mother, Arthur is passed from nurse to nursemaid as he grows, and from nursemaid to tutors when he gets old enough. His father is always there, distant but commanding, and Arthur seeks out the scraps of his approval like a rat in a maze, scouring the citadel in search of satiety.

He doesn’t cry anymore. There is always someone who has more need of sorrow, just as there is always someone who has more need of bread, and a prince must learn to think of his people before himself. Instead, he makes the best of what he has. A handshake here. A backslap there. On the day he wins his first real tournament, there is an entire banquet hosted in his honour, and Arthur dines out on his father’s applause for months before the cupboard runs bare.

+

Then, Merlin comes to Camelot.

He has the look of a starveling, all long limbs and bones, but compared to Arthur, Merlin has never known a day of hunger in his life. Arthur hates him at first sight; the way the flesh meets at the juncture of his throat and the base of his thumbs, the teeth-bruised, tender meat of him. Hates the way that Merlin can somehow make him want—not his smiles or his wit or his shining eyes but his generosity, the picture of largess where Arthur has only crumbs.

In this way, love takes him like a famine, never a feast: an insatiable hunger. For every night spent devouring Merlin’s mouth, his hips, his thighs, he spends another morning hungry for more, another day dreading the prospect of starvation. Merlin feeds him with clumsy fingers, portioning off what parts he can, but Arthur wants to consume him utterly; to tear into him with teeth and tongue till there is nothing left, and has to be careful not to take too much. Even in repletion, he never seems to have enough.

+

And then: the magic. Merlin, standing over the body of a man who has tried to kill him, one hand outstretched and the gold still fading from his eyes.

“You’re a sorcerer,” Arthur says. The word tastes like ozone and ashes, like the consequences of his own greed. “You lied to me.”

“Not on purpose,” Merlin says, trying to smile. There’s blood on his teeth, his mouth, a dagger in his shoulder that was aimed at Arthur’s heart. “Things got a little…complicated.”

Arthur should banish him—of course he should. He can learn to do without the strange, small kindnesses doled out like sweetmeats; the unlikely seasoning of truth that flavours Merlin's speech. It will be a slow weaning, but a necessary one; a spiritual fasting.

But there is Merlin, looking up at Arthur with dark eyes that reflect the same monstrous appetite, the shame of wanting something that cannot bear to be wanted, and Arthur is tired of the waste of doing without; of tasting only the bitter and never the sweet. What good is denying oneself if it’s being offered to one freely anyway?

“Don’t,” Merlin rasps, naked and hungry as Arthur has ever seen him, “don’t send me away.”

“I won’t,” Arthur promises—his turn to be generous—and it's worth the years of guilt and avarice for the feast he makes of Merlin’s smile.

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@merthurmicrofic | shadow | 870 words

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

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@merthurmicrofic | storm | 160 words

It was like watching a rocky cliff crumble into the sea.

“All this time,” Arthur said, voice steady, face calm, eyes devastated, “you’ve been lying to me. Manipulating me.”

“I…” He hadn’t thought about it like that; he’d only thought about getting Arthur to make the right decision, the choice he obviously would have made if he knew all the facts. “That’s not—”

“Don’t.”

Arthur held up a hand, and Merlin fell silent. He could see the storm raging, but he couldn’t feel it yet, not until Arthur opened his mouth and said, “Get out,” and Merlin left, stepping out of the king’s chambers and into the hall and down the stairs and across the courtyard, his feet carrying him to the stables before he had time to think. Arthur didn’t call him back, not even when Merlin was riding out of the gate, trailing his tattered hopes and fears behind him.

That was when it started, finally, to rain.

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@merthurmicrofic | hole | 50 words

“Moths,” Merlin suggested.

“Rats,” said Arthur grimly.

They both stared at the royal tunic in front of them, the hole near the shoulder-line depressingly visible.

“Maybe an arrow,” Merlin said doubtfully, tilting his head. Arthur growled.

“I don’t care what caused it,” he snapped. “I want you to fix it.”

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@merthurmicrofic | pigeon | 50 words

“Merlin,” Arthur sighed. “When I said get a message to me at any cost, this wasn’t what I meant.”

Merlin cooed affably, preening his feathers. He hadn’t actually intended to turn into a pigeon, but if it kept Arthur safe—and himself nestled in Arthur’s arms—then he wasn’t complaining.

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@merthurmicrofic | bruise | 50 words

Merlin bruised easily. Hands at his throat, chains at his wrists, the force of a fist all left a mark, blossoming blue and green on his pale skin. Arthur touched each one with hesitant fingers.

“’S not as bad as it looks,” Merlin promised him.

Arthur said nothing, but there was regicide in his heart.