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Merlin - Awakening
Title: Awakening
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Aftermath of violence, a bit dark
Length: 1,050 words
Spoilers/Season: General Series 1
Synopsis: Arthur wakes after a battle.
Author’s Notes: I am not sure where this came from. Apparently the other two fics I’m working on weren’t angsty enough or something? IDK.
Disclaimer: I do not own this particular interpretation of the myths. I am making no profit from this.
~~~~~~~~~~
Arthur awoke to a pounding head, aching body, and absolutely no idea where he was. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, the dew-wet grass slippery under his fingers and explaining why his shirt was stuck damply to his back.
He looked around and saw only unfamiliar woods, lit by the rising sun. When his eyes saw the red-orange light filtering through the leaves, his head filled with visions and half-remembrances. Merlin. The sound of laughter that was definitely not his own and sounded nothing like his servant. A flash of light. A bloodied lip. The feeling of flesh beneath his fists. Tossing Merlin to the side. Safety. Battle. No weapons, only his hands and wits. Darkness and stars and then only darkness once more.
He looked down at his hands, he saw them torn and stained with blood. He flexed them against the grass and felt the pull against his swollen knuckles. He wiped them through the dew, dried them on cloth stained a dull red-brown.
He sensed no further danger, heard no sound other than chirping birds and harsh breathing. It took him a moment to realize it was not his own breath.
He turned his head this way and that, feeling bones and muscles realign and settle about him as he searched for something he knew should be there. Finally, half hidden by the undergrowth, he saw it: a pale and bony hand.
He crawled closer, body aching too much to stand, breath hitching as he pulled back the twigs and leaves to reveal the man he reluctantly called friend. Merlin’s eyes were closed, one nearly swollen shut. His clothing was torn and filthy, soaked through with mud and what looked to be blood. His breath came in ragged gasps, one arm thrown across his chest and gripping bruised if not broken ribs. The rest of his limbs were all askew as if thrown like a ragdoll and Arthur had a horrible thought it might have been him that did it, pushed aside by the knowledge he would never knowingly hurt Merlin and would have only thrown him out of the way of an even greater danger.
There was another flash of memory, of him shouting for Merlin to run away, of Merlin standing there defiantly, already bruised, already saying something back, pleading for something, but the words were gone, lost in the wind or the depths of his mind because he did not have the foggiest notion of what could have been so important to stay and bleed for.
He reached for Merlin’s outstretched hand, winced in sympathy as he flinched backward and curled into himself. “No more,” Merlin moaned.
Arthur hesitated, hand hovering over a shoulder barely covered by a torn tunic. “Merlin?” he tried. “It’s me, Arthur. You’re safe now.”
Merlin’s good eye fluttered open and he recoiled as if in fear of what he saw. Arthur figured he must look a sight, covered in blood and grime and who knew what else. He scrubbed a sleeve over his face, not surprised to see it come back filthy. It must have been enough as a peculiar look crossed Merlin’s face as he breathed, “Arthur?”
Arthur edged closer, started checking him for any other obvious injuries. He worked slowly, made sure Merlin knew exactly what he was doing and tried not to take it personally when he flinched and jerked away anyway. “I’m here,” he told him. “Whoever... whatever did this is gone now.”
“You...” Merlin paused, tried to take a deeper breath. “You don’t remember?”
Arthur shook his head. “I have flashes, but cannot see a face. They are gone now, whoever they were.” He looked at Merlin’s wrist, swollen and bruised and needing a wrap if not a splint. “I’ll get you home, back to Camelot. Gaius will fix you right up, good as new and you’ll be back to annoying me in no time.”
Merlin chuckled, low and deep and extremely painfully if the sound was anything to go by. He seemed to drift off again when Arthur turned to find an appropriate set of sticks for the wrist – Gaius might tell him it was not necessary but he would rather be too careful rather than not cautious enough. When Arthur turned back, he heard just the barest of whispers, so soft he almost missed it over a particularly loud bird. “It didn’t work, Nimueh. You can’t drive us apart, even with your sorcery.”
Arthur figured it made as much sense as anything else. If a sorcerer, or sorceress if this Nimueh was a woman, was involved it would explain the lack of memory, the odd flashes of being somewhere without truly having any knowledge of the situation itself. He’d tell his father, add another name to the list of those to hunt down and purge.
Something still felt off though. He could have sworn he remembered Merlin uttering words in a voice not his own, hand raised to ward off what was definitely a woman who was jabbering nonsense back at him as well.
He shook his head. Sorcery. He saw what the magician wanted him to see and nothing more. He feared he would never unravel what truly happened; memories mixed with lies mixed with confusion ran circles through his mind.
Merlin was asleep now or, more likely, unconscious. Arthur took the opportunity to lift his tunic and take a look at the state of his ribs with minimal protest. The pale chest was spattered with bruises, already black and green. There were scrapes as well, as if whoever had hit him had been wearing a ring or some other sort of jewellery.
He spread his fingers across them in sympathy, torn knuckles above torn skin. It was only when he moved to try to find some way of getting the injured man back to the castle, knowing there was no chance of him leaving him alone to seek out assistance, that he noticed the stone missing from his own ring, the setting exposed, rough and bloody.
He pulled it from his finger, twisted it in the rising light, watched as the prongs turned like claws in the shadows. He lowered it slowly, matched it to a very distinct indentation in the softness of Merlin’s exposed belly, and wept.
~~~~~~~~~~
Feedback is always welcomed.
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Aftermath of violence, a bit dark
Length: 1,050 words
Spoilers/Season: General Series 1
Synopsis: Arthur wakes after a battle.
Author’s Notes: I am not sure where this came from. Apparently the other two fics I’m working on weren’t angsty enough or something? IDK.
Disclaimer: I do not own this particular interpretation of the myths. I am making no profit from this.
~~~~~~~~~~
Arthur awoke to a pounding head, aching body, and absolutely no idea where he was. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, the dew-wet grass slippery under his fingers and explaining why his shirt was stuck damply to his back.
He looked around and saw only unfamiliar woods, lit by the rising sun. When his eyes saw the red-orange light filtering through the leaves, his head filled with visions and half-remembrances. Merlin. The sound of laughter that was definitely not his own and sounded nothing like his servant. A flash of light. A bloodied lip. The feeling of flesh beneath his fists. Tossing Merlin to the side. Safety. Battle. No weapons, only his hands and wits. Darkness and stars and then only darkness once more.
He looked down at his hands, he saw them torn and stained with blood. He flexed them against the grass and felt the pull against his swollen knuckles. He wiped them through the dew, dried them on cloth stained a dull red-brown.
He sensed no further danger, heard no sound other than chirping birds and harsh breathing. It took him a moment to realize it was not his own breath.
He turned his head this way and that, feeling bones and muscles realign and settle about him as he searched for something he knew should be there. Finally, half hidden by the undergrowth, he saw it: a pale and bony hand.
He crawled closer, body aching too much to stand, breath hitching as he pulled back the twigs and leaves to reveal the man he reluctantly called friend. Merlin’s eyes were closed, one nearly swollen shut. His clothing was torn and filthy, soaked through with mud and what looked to be blood. His breath came in ragged gasps, one arm thrown across his chest and gripping bruised if not broken ribs. The rest of his limbs were all askew as if thrown like a ragdoll and Arthur had a horrible thought it might have been him that did it, pushed aside by the knowledge he would never knowingly hurt Merlin and would have only thrown him out of the way of an even greater danger.
There was another flash of memory, of him shouting for Merlin to run away, of Merlin standing there defiantly, already bruised, already saying something back, pleading for something, but the words were gone, lost in the wind or the depths of his mind because he did not have the foggiest notion of what could have been so important to stay and bleed for.
He reached for Merlin’s outstretched hand, winced in sympathy as he flinched backward and curled into himself. “No more,” Merlin moaned.
Arthur hesitated, hand hovering over a shoulder barely covered by a torn tunic. “Merlin?” he tried. “It’s me, Arthur. You’re safe now.”
Merlin’s good eye fluttered open and he recoiled as if in fear of what he saw. Arthur figured he must look a sight, covered in blood and grime and who knew what else. He scrubbed a sleeve over his face, not surprised to see it come back filthy. It must have been enough as a peculiar look crossed Merlin’s face as he breathed, “Arthur?”
Arthur edged closer, started checking him for any other obvious injuries. He worked slowly, made sure Merlin knew exactly what he was doing and tried not to take it personally when he flinched and jerked away anyway. “I’m here,” he told him. “Whoever... whatever did this is gone now.”
“You...” Merlin paused, tried to take a deeper breath. “You don’t remember?”
Arthur shook his head. “I have flashes, but cannot see a face. They are gone now, whoever they were.” He looked at Merlin’s wrist, swollen and bruised and needing a wrap if not a splint. “I’ll get you home, back to Camelot. Gaius will fix you right up, good as new and you’ll be back to annoying me in no time.”
Merlin chuckled, low and deep and extremely painfully if the sound was anything to go by. He seemed to drift off again when Arthur turned to find an appropriate set of sticks for the wrist – Gaius might tell him it was not necessary but he would rather be too careful rather than not cautious enough. When Arthur turned back, he heard just the barest of whispers, so soft he almost missed it over a particularly loud bird. “It didn’t work, Nimueh. You can’t drive us apart, even with your sorcery.”
Arthur figured it made as much sense as anything else. If a sorcerer, or sorceress if this Nimueh was a woman, was involved it would explain the lack of memory, the odd flashes of being somewhere without truly having any knowledge of the situation itself. He’d tell his father, add another name to the list of those to hunt down and purge.
Something still felt off though. He could have sworn he remembered Merlin uttering words in a voice not his own, hand raised to ward off what was definitely a woman who was jabbering nonsense back at him as well.
He shook his head. Sorcery. He saw what the magician wanted him to see and nothing more. He feared he would never unravel what truly happened; memories mixed with lies mixed with confusion ran circles through his mind.
Merlin was asleep now or, more likely, unconscious. Arthur took the opportunity to lift his tunic and take a look at the state of his ribs with minimal protest. The pale chest was spattered with bruises, already black and green. There were scrapes as well, as if whoever had hit him had been wearing a ring or some other sort of jewellery.
He spread his fingers across them in sympathy, torn knuckles above torn skin. It was only when he moved to try to find some way of getting the injured man back to the castle, knowing there was no chance of him leaving him alone to seek out assistance, that he noticed the stone missing from his own ring, the setting exposed, rough and bloody.
He pulled it from his finger, twisted it in the rising light, watched as the prongs turned like claws in the shadows. He lowered it slowly, matched it to a very distinct indentation in the softness of Merlin’s exposed belly, and wept.
~~~~~~~~~~
Feedback is always welcomed.
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Uh, that's excellent. I mean we have a suspicion of what happened, but we're seeing things through Arthur's eyes, and he's kinda being in denial... until that last bit of evidence, and we can feel his heart breaking right there... *meep*
*lip-wibble*
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Glad you seemed to like the finished result, heartbreak and all! :)