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jhava!
Sorry I couldn't make it to the party :( However please accept this humble offering in lieu, I hope you like it :)
Happy birthday, I hope you have a lovely day and many more like it :)
Disclaimer: Merlin and Arthur don't belong to me, I'm not sure who they (or at least their present incarnations) belong to. Either way, no harm meant, no profit made.
Rating: PG-15
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Notes: Forjhava - happy birthday :) Thanks also to evildrem for giving me a title idea.
Arcanum
Copyright Margaret Turner
23rd September 2010
He's been trained to fight, to lead and to kill from birth; it's... expected of him. More than that it’s what he is, what he does. It is his duty and his honour to go out and fight, to defend the kingdom that will one day be his. He's always been told he’s good, that he grasps new things quickly, strategy, tactics, the basic physical movements. He's young and strong and fast; he's honed himself as much as anyone can. He's been sculpted and moulded, trained like a rose to bloom. He doesn't know if his ability is innate talent or simply the product of so much training.
He took part in his first battle at the age of 12; he did little but stay by his father's side within a circle of heavily armed and dedicated knights, but he still remembers the screams and the blood and the chaos. Sometimes he wonders if that was why, if seeing so much so young twisted him forever in some way, but in his heart he suspects it's older than that. Maybe it was the first time he held a sword or when one of his tutors allowed him to beat them, but he doesn’t think it was. He's learned politics and diplomacy, the kind of strategy that keeps kingdoms at peace, and he knows he's good at it when he needs to be, knows when to charm and when to be every inch the prince he is. And he hates war: it's a waste in so many ways; but the fight is another thing entirely. Tournaments aren't the same: they’re formal and tedious - oh, there's always the potential for things to go too far, for 'accidents', but it's not the same.
He likes the fierce honesty of a fight, the purity of intent. He likes using his body to its full extent, pushing its limits. He learns things about himself when he fights; he learns clarity of thought, priorities, it narrows his focus and he finds he can read other people like books. For the short while that the fight lasts there is no-one to disappoint, no-one to live up to, no responsibility to anyone save himself. It’s a freedom he wins moment by moment with sweat and blood and breath.
His fights are rarely long and he wonders what it says that sometimes he wishes they were. He kills without hesitation or remorse when necessary; it's a power he's had all his life, his father's executioner saw to that. He hates the executions, but the thrill of the kill is something else entirely. Afterwards, when he's flushed with victory and the heat of the fight still surges through his veins smothering the aches and pains he will have later, he wonders if it’s because he's royalty and no-one gets close to him that he turns to this, or if it's because of this that no-one gets close to him.
No-one but Merlin.
He wonders sometimes about Merlin too, because no-one should be as strange as he. He’s never met anyone who wasn’t scared of him, of his royalty, of his skills, of his future. Merlin is the only one who has ever treated him as simply Arthur. He envies Merlin’s complete disregard for society's rules, even though he knows he will one day be able to shape those rules himself he can never ignore them.
One day, he thinks, he would like to fight Merlin; not the verbal bickering they indulge in so often, not sparring for the purposes of teaching his knights, but an honest fight to the death. He would be able to see then, would be able to read Merlin the way Merlin so often seems to read him and then he would *know*. He thinks about it sometimes, pictures it in his mind, every move and feint and strike. He knows Merlin is beyond inept with any kind of weapon and it should be the work of moments to have him down, but every time he considers it he knows, without knowing at all, that it would never be that easy. He knows too that they will never fight like that and it’s more of a relief than he cares to admit, even to himself; Merlin would never allow it and neither would Arthur. Instead Merlin is the one he goes to after a fight and what he finds there is something else entirely.
One day, he knows, Merlin will finally tell him what it is to be Merlin, and he will use little words to make sure that Arthur understands. Merlin will cede victory to him because Arthur would have it no other way and Arthur knows that on that day every other battle he has ever won or ever will, will pale in comparison. Until that day though, which he always hopes will be soon, Arthur will keep on fighting and bleeding for his people and his land, always knowing that the hardest battle he will ever face is one where he will never land a blow.
*****
Merlin finds it hard sometimes, living in the castle, working with Gaius, being 'normal'. It's not normal, not for him, it never has been. He’s not sure if it’s better or worse than living in Ealdor was. He was known there, even if many were afraid of him, here he can’t be known for fear of death. Not that he’s particularly afraid of that himself, he knows his magic would save him, whether he wanted it to or not, it’s the fear of having to leave Camelot that keeps him hidden.
Gaius claims to understand sometimes, but he doesn't really. Gaius' magic was a learned thing, like playing an instrument or reading; Merlin's magic is like breathing, as much a part of him as his heart or hands or head. He's been warned about using magic too often, not because of Uther, though there is that too, but because of the things it does to the people who wield it. He understands that power corrupts, he’s seen it himself in others, but it still feels borderline ridiculous to him, like he should be afraid of his own hands. His magic is him, he is his magic, and he's never found anyone who really understands that. He can only ever be himself, however hard that sometimes makes things.
He tries to fit in though and he knows he doesn't, but he's found a strange balance where he's just odd enough to be amusing and harmless, but useful all the same. It’s all deception, no-one really knows him, but he’s learned to live with it. He's never meant anyone harm, but he's not beyond inflicting it if he has to. He gets angry just like everyone else, but it’s always been a passing thing like a summer storm and he would no more act out with his magic than he would with his fists. He’s fairly sure there’s a darker fury inside of him, the kind that burns the land and salts it, but nothing’s touched it yet and he hopes nothing ever will because he’s not blind to the power he possesses. He's not an idiot either, he never has been, despite common perception; he just sees things differently to most people and he can't help that.
What he sees is Uther's madness and how it has been passed on to his son, but twisted and warped by the force of will that is Arthur himself, until it’s become a different kind of sanity. The first time he saw Arthur fight he saw it; saw the way the Prince breathed in the battle, the way he flowed with his opponent and wove them to his own tune.
He mentioned it once to Gaius, that Arthur in battle was magic, it got him a clip round the ear for such an idiotic comment when magic in any form is death in Uther’s kingdom. Especially since it wasn’t magic at all, just effort and practice and a glare for Merlin for not being similarly diligent in his studies.
Practice refines a skill, Merlin is fully prepared to admit, but what Arthur has is far more than that: if he had never laid his hand on a blade in his life he could still defend himself against half a dozen men; if he’d spent his life locked alone in a tower he would still be able to win people to his side; and if he’d never met Merlin at all they would still know each other’s hearts. Merlin knows all this like he knows the sun rises and sets each day and it astonishes him sometimes that no-one else seems to see it. Merlin spends the rest of the day doing odd jobs for everyone but Gaius who doesn’t see and doesn’t understand, whatever he thinks.
Merlin mends Arthur’s clothes with magic because he’s better at that than stitching and it needs to look good; he sweeps Arthur’s floor with magic because he forgot to grab his broom from Gaius’ quarters and he’s not going back there now; but he warms Arthur’s bed with himself because he wants to. The sheets are smooth against his skin and he wriggles a little in pleasure at the feel of them, then stretches out and waits for the King’s Council to end so that Arthur can return to him.
One day, he thinks, he will tell Arthur what he sees in him, why he understands, and for all that Arthur is in many ways his father’s son, in this Merlin knows he is not. He will show his Prince the wind on his lips, the water in his blood, and the fire in his eyes and Arthur will accept them, take them as he has already taken Merlin - as his own. There will be no pyre, no executioner’s axe, for Merlin because Camelot’s Prince does not surrender what is his and Arthur has a magic of his own, woven with body and blade: a hard-earned, bloody magic of earth and iron and broken bodies. It's no less beautiful than Merlin's own, no less a part of him, and when he comes to Merlin, Merlin understands as no-one else can that it is simply who and what Arthur is.
As far back as Merlin can remember, long before the Dragon and Camelot, Merlin has dreamt of a future that burned like a star, brighter than the sun, and coming closer day by day. The Dragon gave the dream words and definition, but Merlin already knew he would not hide forever, just as he knows that Arthur will eventually be free to be the King that lies beneath the princely demeanour.
So tonight when Arthur returns from the Council, tired from a long day of masks and meaningless verbal manoeuvring, and he crawls into bed beside Merlin, warm and close, Merlin will card his fingers through Arthur’s hair as the tension slowly seeps from the Prince’s body and enjoy the roughness of Arthur’s sword-callused hands catching on his bare skin and he will let Arthur be just Arthur. And afterwards, Merlin will close his eyes to watch their star blaze closer still and when he opens them again perhaps the brightness of their future will still be reflected in the blue and Arthur will finally see Merlin for Merlin too.
FIN
Feedback always welcome
Happy birthday, I hope you have a lovely day and many more like it :)
Disclaimer: Merlin and Arthur don't belong to me, I'm not sure who they (or at least their present incarnations) belong to. Either way, no harm meant, no profit made.
Rating: PG-15
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Notes: For
jhava - happy birthday :) Thanks also to evildrem for giving me a title idea.Arcanum
Copyright Margaret Turner
23rd September 2010
He's been trained to fight, to lead and to kill from birth; it's... expected of him. More than that it’s what he is, what he does. It is his duty and his honour to go out and fight, to defend the kingdom that will one day be his. He's always been told he’s good, that he grasps new things quickly, strategy, tactics, the basic physical movements. He's young and strong and fast; he's honed himself as much as anyone can. He's been sculpted and moulded, trained like a rose to bloom. He doesn't know if his ability is innate talent or simply the product of so much training.
He took part in his first battle at the age of 12; he did little but stay by his father's side within a circle of heavily armed and dedicated knights, but he still remembers the screams and the blood and the chaos. Sometimes he wonders if that was why, if seeing so much so young twisted him forever in some way, but in his heart he suspects it's older than that. Maybe it was the first time he held a sword or when one of his tutors allowed him to beat them, but he doesn’t think it was. He's learned politics and diplomacy, the kind of strategy that keeps kingdoms at peace, and he knows he's good at it when he needs to be, knows when to charm and when to be every inch the prince he is. And he hates war: it's a waste in so many ways; but the fight is another thing entirely. Tournaments aren't the same: they’re formal and tedious - oh, there's always the potential for things to go too far, for 'accidents', but it's not the same.
He likes the fierce honesty of a fight, the purity of intent. He likes using his body to its full extent, pushing its limits. He learns things about himself when he fights; he learns clarity of thought, priorities, it narrows his focus and he finds he can read other people like books. For the short while that the fight lasts there is no-one to disappoint, no-one to live up to, no responsibility to anyone save himself. It’s a freedom he wins moment by moment with sweat and blood and breath.
His fights are rarely long and he wonders what it says that sometimes he wishes they were. He kills without hesitation or remorse when necessary; it's a power he's had all his life, his father's executioner saw to that. He hates the executions, but the thrill of the kill is something else entirely. Afterwards, when he's flushed with victory and the heat of the fight still surges through his veins smothering the aches and pains he will have later, he wonders if it’s because he's royalty and no-one gets close to him that he turns to this, or if it's because of this that no-one gets close to him.
No-one but Merlin.
He wonders sometimes about Merlin too, because no-one should be as strange as he. He’s never met anyone who wasn’t scared of him, of his royalty, of his skills, of his future. Merlin is the only one who has ever treated him as simply Arthur. He envies Merlin’s complete disregard for society's rules, even though he knows he will one day be able to shape those rules himself he can never ignore them.
One day, he thinks, he would like to fight Merlin; not the verbal bickering they indulge in so often, not sparring for the purposes of teaching his knights, but an honest fight to the death. He would be able to see then, would be able to read Merlin the way Merlin so often seems to read him and then he would *know*. He thinks about it sometimes, pictures it in his mind, every move and feint and strike. He knows Merlin is beyond inept with any kind of weapon and it should be the work of moments to have him down, but every time he considers it he knows, without knowing at all, that it would never be that easy. He knows too that they will never fight like that and it’s more of a relief than he cares to admit, even to himself; Merlin would never allow it and neither would Arthur. Instead Merlin is the one he goes to after a fight and what he finds there is something else entirely.
One day, he knows, Merlin will finally tell him what it is to be Merlin, and he will use little words to make sure that Arthur understands. Merlin will cede victory to him because Arthur would have it no other way and Arthur knows that on that day every other battle he has ever won or ever will, will pale in comparison. Until that day though, which he always hopes will be soon, Arthur will keep on fighting and bleeding for his people and his land, always knowing that the hardest battle he will ever face is one where he will never land a blow.
*****
Merlin finds it hard sometimes, living in the castle, working with Gaius, being 'normal'. It's not normal, not for him, it never has been. He’s not sure if it’s better or worse than living in Ealdor was. He was known there, even if many were afraid of him, here he can’t be known for fear of death. Not that he’s particularly afraid of that himself, he knows his magic would save him, whether he wanted it to or not, it’s the fear of having to leave Camelot that keeps him hidden.
Gaius claims to understand sometimes, but he doesn't really. Gaius' magic was a learned thing, like playing an instrument or reading; Merlin's magic is like breathing, as much a part of him as his heart or hands or head. He's been warned about using magic too often, not because of Uther, though there is that too, but because of the things it does to the people who wield it. He understands that power corrupts, he’s seen it himself in others, but it still feels borderline ridiculous to him, like he should be afraid of his own hands. His magic is him, he is his magic, and he's never found anyone who really understands that. He can only ever be himself, however hard that sometimes makes things.
He tries to fit in though and he knows he doesn't, but he's found a strange balance where he's just odd enough to be amusing and harmless, but useful all the same. It’s all deception, no-one really knows him, but he’s learned to live with it. He's never meant anyone harm, but he's not beyond inflicting it if he has to. He gets angry just like everyone else, but it’s always been a passing thing like a summer storm and he would no more act out with his magic than he would with his fists. He’s fairly sure there’s a darker fury inside of him, the kind that burns the land and salts it, but nothing’s touched it yet and he hopes nothing ever will because he’s not blind to the power he possesses. He's not an idiot either, he never has been, despite common perception; he just sees things differently to most people and he can't help that.
What he sees is Uther's madness and how it has been passed on to his son, but twisted and warped by the force of will that is Arthur himself, until it’s become a different kind of sanity. The first time he saw Arthur fight he saw it; saw the way the Prince breathed in the battle, the way he flowed with his opponent and wove them to his own tune.
He mentioned it once to Gaius, that Arthur in battle was magic, it got him a clip round the ear for such an idiotic comment when magic in any form is death in Uther’s kingdom. Especially since it wasn’t magic at all, just effort and practice and a glare for Merlin for not being similarly diligent in his studies.
Practice refines a skill, Merlin is fully prepared to admit, but what Arthur has is far more than that: if he had never laid his hand on a blade in his life he could still defend himself against half a dozen men; if he’d spent his life locked alone in a tower he would still be able to win people to his side; and if he’d never met Merlin at all they would still know each other’s hearts. Merlin knows all this like he knows the sun rises and sets each day and it astonishes him sometimes that no-one else seems to see it. Merlin spends the rest of the day doing odd jobs for everyone but Gaius who doesn’t see and doesn’t understand, whatever he thinks.
Merlin mends Arthur’s clothes with magic because he’s better at that than stitching and it needs to look good; he sweeps Arthur’s floor with magic because he forgot to grab his broom from Gaius’ quarters and he’s not going back there now; but he warms Arthur’s bed with himself because he wants to. The sheets are smooth against his skin and he wriggles a little in pleasure at the feel of them, then stretches out and waits for the King’s Council to end so that Arthur can return to him.
One day, he thinks, he will tell Arthur what he sees in him, why he understands, and for all that Arthur is in many ways his father’s son, in this Merlin knows he is not. He will show his Prince the wind on his lips, the water in his blood, and the fire in his eyes and Arthur will accept them, take them as he has already taken Merlin - as his own. There will be no pyre, no executioner’s axe, for Merlin because Camelot’s Prince does not surrender what is his and Arthur has a magic of his own, woven with body and blade: a hard-earned, bloody magic of earth and iron and broken bodies. It's no less beautiful than Merlin's own, no less a part of him, and when he comes to Merlin, Merlin understands as no-one else can that it is simply who and what Arthur is.
As far back as Merlin can remember, long before the Dragon and Camelot, Merlin has dreamt of a future that burned like a star, brighter than the sun, and coming closer day by day. The Dragon gave the dream words and definition, but Merlin already knew he would not hide forever, just as he knows that Arthur will eventually be free to be the King that lies beneath the princely demeanour.
So tonight when Arthur returns from the Council, tired from a long day of masks and meaningless verbal manoeuvring, and he crawls into bed beside Merlin, warm and close, Merlin will card his fingers through Arthur’s hair as the tension slowly seeps from the Prince’s body and enjoy the roughness of Arthur’s sword-callused hands catching on his bare skin and he will let Arthur be just Arthur. And afterwards, Merlin will close his eyes to watch their star blaze closer still and when he opens them again perhaps the brightness of their future will still be reflected in the blue and Arthur will finally see Merlin for Merlin too.
FIN
Feedback always welcome