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Merlin - In Memoriam
Finally polished this up. A little on the angsty side, but so is life, so there's that.
Title: In Memoriam
Genre: Friendship, with slight Arthur/Merlin undertones
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~1,900 words
Spoilers: Through Series 4 to be safe, though set in the slight future.
Synopsis: It serves as a reminder, as something has to.
Author’s Notes: Er, a bit of angst thrown in there, and slight mention of injuries.
Disclaimer: I do not own this interpretation of the myths and am making no profit from this.
Another near miss. Merlin shook his head ruefully and carefully picked at the broken links. He prised the little rings apart from the rest of the hauberk and made a mental note to tell the Royal Armourer how many he would need this time. A glance to the window told him there was still time to bring the shirt tonight and have it ready in time for the no doubt celebratory feast they would have on the morrow.
He stood and tucked the broken links into the small pouch he carried, listened to them clink plaintively as he scooped up the shirt to leave. He spared one last glance to the bed where an exhausted Arthur lie sleeping and waited just long enough to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest and assure himself that his prince still lived before he quietly slipped out the door. A nod to the ever-present guard and a whispered incantation later, and he knew Arthur would be safe, at least for the night.
The Armourer took the hauberk and assured him it would not only be repaired, but shined right and proper by morning. Another link fell off in the passing, one that Merlin had missed despite his thorough review, and the Geof told him to leave it as it would be found in the nightly sweeping, but Merlin ducked down and picked it up anyway. He continued his conversation of princes and danger and the fine protection of a well-made suit of mail and left with the link now forgotten by Geof, yet warm where it was cupped in the palm of Merlin’s hand.
He ate with Gaius and tidied the little workroom and forced a yawn to give him an excuse to slink off to his room with a candle and a pilfered set of pliers. He sat at his tiny little desk and carefully worked each and every link until it was flat and round again and then just as carefully wove them together with the growing length from every previous battle. He never used magic for the task, just pure and simple manual labour. It made it more meaningful somehow, if only in his mind.
There had been enough to wrap around his wrist many months ago, and now his little memorial had begun to look far less like a bracelet and far more like a gauntlet. He idly wondered if he should use one of the broken clasps he had also salvaged to truly make it so, or if he should keep with the theme and fashion something solely out of the broken links the next time Arthur’s armour needed repair.
For there would be a next time. There was always a next time.
Merlin tucked his project away and prepared himself for bed. Arthur would need him in the morning, whether the prat of a prince would admit it or not.
It was barely a fortnight before Merlin had more links to add to his project. Another full moon and it was even larger. It had now grown to be the length from the tip of his thumb to the joint just above his wrist. He did not know why he kept it up, why he created something he would never actually dare to show anyone, let alone use.
He had managed a clasp, rough though it was, and the links could now wrap around rightly, held close to his skin and warmed by his blood as much as his memories.
A knock on Gaius’ door heralded a page sent by the prince to retrieve Merlin. A glance to the window showed the moon high in the night sky, but Merlin was not fool enough to think Arthur wanted him for a bedtime story or some other lark. Their mission that day was unsuccessful, at least in the prince’s eyes. They had saved nearly half a village and slew the beast that had terrorised them, but had not found those that had controlled the beast, nor had they put to rest the fear that they would return, beast or no.
Arthur’s bruises were still fresh and vibrant when Merlin buckled the replacement hauberk into place, his usual one not yet returned from its repairs. The mercenaries had returned as predicted, though they had not targeted the outlaying village this time, but rather Camelot herself. It also appeared that they had far more than a single beast at their disposal.
Merlin accompanied Arthur as he rode out to face this latest threat, no one questioning him as it had become habit long ago. He stayed back enough so as to seem unobtrusive, yet close enough to be in place should he be needed.
He was, of course, needed. Not that anyone knew. Not that anyone could know, not without the threat of death hanging above him. The beasts were controlled not by the mercenaries, but by the sorcerer they had paid to do their bidding. Merlin was able to target the sorcerer and take him down with minimal fuss. Once he went, so did the control of the beasts. They much preferred their freedom, but were worked up enough from the preceding battle that they managed to do nearly as much harm in their escape as they had in their initial attack.
The knights did their jobs and Arthur did his and soon enough the battle was over and the mercenaries were either safely shackled for their journey to the dungeons, or lie dead on the open expanse of once pristine prairie.
Merlin followed Arthur back to his rooms and took note of the new limp and the way he clearly favoured his right side. Sure enough, as the heavy armour was peeled away, fresh damage lay atop bruises that had not had enough time to fully bloom.
Merlin cleaned the worst of it away and knew Arthur would much rather sleep in his bed than in the tub, so he promised a warm bath would be prepared for the next morning, knowing it would help ease the muscles that would no doubt lock up over the short bit of night that still remained.
With Arthur settled, he took a closer look at the replacement armour. He noted the dings and dents and tried to figure out which ones he could handle on his own and which ones he would need more trained assistance with. He then began the almost meditative task of removing the broken links, setting the bent bits of metal to the side and soothing his hand over the remaining layers to search out any snags or sharp edges.
Task complete, he carefully picked up the loose pieces and poured them into his little pouch, the clinking almost melodic had he not know the source. He reached to tie the pouch closed, but found his hand stilled by another.
He had not even heard Arthur approach, but he did hear the confused voice as the prince asked, “What are you doing?”
“I am preparing the armour for repair,” Merlin replied after a pause to swallow. It was the truth after all.
“And this?” Arthur asked, lifting the pouch. It was then that Merlin realised that, in his rush to answer Arthur’s summons, he had dumped the entire project in the pouch, the weight of it far more than a few broken links.
Arthur noticed at the same time he did and tugged the pouch fully out of his reach. Merlin numbly made a rough grab at it, but did not even know why he continued to collect the little pieces of metal, let alone why he would want to keep it from anyone.
Arthur dumped the pouch’s contents out on his table, clearly noting Merlin’s wince as several of the links skittered away. He picked up the pseudo-gauntlet and carefully eyed the workmanship, which even Merlin had to admit had gotten far better over time. He fingered the clasp and raised his eyebrows, likely knowing exactly where it came from. “Stealing from your prince?” he asked, voice modulated to be purposefully bland. It was not accusing, but it was not quite understanding either.
Merlin stood and tried not to visibly reach out towards the creation. “They were broken anyway, Geof would have just discarded them,” he said in explanation.
“You have a right to armour, Merlin,” Arthur said, strangely not angry. “God knows, you follow me into battle often enough; I don’t know why you haven’t asked for any before.” He picked up the links and weighed them calculatingly. “There is no reason for you to make your own, let alone for you to do so out of inferior materials.”
“It’s not that,” Merlin blurted before he could stop himself. He reached out now and took the gauntlet from Arthur’s hands, placed it in his own and carefully picked up every scattered link.
“Then what is it?” Arthur asked, so reasonable it hurt.
“It’s...” Merlin started, but was not sure how to end, not sure what to say that would not make him sound crazy. The way Arthur looked at him, not saying anything was doing that job just fine so he finally let it all out and said, “Do you know how many times you have been injured? Do you know how many times you have nearly died? If I wasn’t... If the knights and fate and everything else were not on your side, do you have any idea what would have happened a thousand times over by now? This, this is a reminder to me. It tells me to be more vigilant, to be more careful, because everyone and the cook knows there is no way you will be.”
He paused and breathed heavily, knowing he spoke out of turn and knowing Arthur had every right to ridicule him, every right to take back what was his and leave Merlin empty handed and with absolutely nothing to show for his efforts.
Instead, Arthur turned and looked him right in the eye and said, “Yes.” Then, just as quickly, he turned away.
“I – what?” Merlin asked, truly confused.
Arthur did not turn back to him, but looked to the fire that sputtered fitfully in the hearth as he said, “I know. I don’t want to, but I know.”
Then, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, he calmly walked back towards his bed. He paused along the way and bent down to pick up a ring near his bare foot. He walked back to Merlin and placed it in his hand with the others and, without looking him in the eye, repeated, “I know.”
Years later, Arthur rode out to battle with the crown of a king upon his head instead of that of a prince, Merlin faithfully at his side. The sorcerer’s own armour shone with the uneven shine of the efforts of his own incompetent manservant, but no one dared say a word about it. They also never dared to say a word about the interesting and intricate gauntlet he wore, many links permanently dulled with age and none anywhere near perfectly round.
Arthur looked to Merlin and his eyes traced down to that gauntlet, a wry smile alight upon his face. “Ready?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
Merlin nodded and readied his staff, the links upon his arm jingling in quiet invocation.
Together, they charged into battle. Together, they claimed victory.
Feedback is always welcomed.
Title: In Memoriam
Genre: Friendship, with slight Arthur/Merlin undertones
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~1,900 words
Spoilers: Through Series 4 to be safe, though set in the slight future.
Synopsis: It serves as a reminder, as something has to.
Author’s Notes: Er, a bit of angst thrown in there, and slight mention of injuries.
Disclaimer: I do not own this interpretation of the myths and am making no profit from this.
Another near miss. Merlin shook his head ruefully and carefully picked at the broken links. He prised the little rings apart from the rest of the hauberk and made a mental note to tell the Royal Armourer how many he would need this time. A glance to the window told him there was still time to bring the shirt tonight and have it ready in time for the no doubt celebratory feast they would have on the morrow.
He stood and tucked the broken links into the small pouch he carried, listened to them clink plaintively as he scooped up the shirt to leave. He spared one last glance to the bed where an exhausted Arthur lie sleeping and waited just long enough to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest and assure himself that his prince still lived before he quietly slipped out the door. A nod to the ever-present guard and a whispered incantation later, and he knew Arthur would be safe, at least for the night.
The Armourer took the hauberk and assured him it would not only be repaired, but shined right and proper by morning. Another link fell off in the passing, one that Merlin had missed despite his thorough review, and the Geof told him to leave it as it would be found in the nightly sweeping, but Merlin ducked down and picked it up anyway. He continued his conversation of princes and danger and the fine protection of a well-made suit of mail and left with the link now forgotten by Geof, yet warm where it was cupped in the palm of Merlin’s hand.
He ate with Gaius and tidied the little workroom and forced a yawn to give him an excuse to slink off to his room with a candle and a pilfered set of pliers. He sat at his tiny little desk and carefully worked each and every link until it was flat and round again and then just as carefully wove them together with the growing length from every previous battle. He never used magic for the task, just pure and simple manual labour. It made it more meaningful somehow, if only in his mind.
There had been enough to wrap around his wrist many months ago, and now his little memorial had begun to look far less like a bracelet and far more like a gauntlet. He idly wondered if he should use one of the broken clasps he had also salvaged to truly make it so, or if he should keep with the theme and fashion something solely out of the broken links the next time Arthur’s armour needed repair.
For there would be a next time. There was always a next time.
Merlin tucked his project away and prepared himself for bed. Arthur would need him in the morning, whether the prat of a prince would admit it or not.
It was barely a fortnight before Merlin had more links to add to his project. Another full moon and it was even larger. It had now grown to be the length from the tip of his thumb to the joint just above his wrist. He did not know why he kept it up, why he created something he would never actually dare to show anyone, let alone use.
He had managed a clasp, rough though it was, and the links could now wrap around rightly, held close to his skin and warmed by his blood as much as his memories.
A knock on Gaius’ door heralded a page sent by the prince to retrieve Merlin. A glance to the window showed the moon high in the night sky, but Merlin was not fool enough to think Arthur wanted him for a bedtime story or some other lark. Their mission that day was unsuccessful, at least in the prince’s eyes. They had saved nearly half a village and slew the beast that had terrorised them, but had not found those that had controlled the beast, nor had they put to rest the fear that they would return, beast or no.
Arthur’s bruises were still fresh and vibrant when Merlin buckled the replacement hauberk into place, his usual one not yet returned from its repairs. The mercenaries had returned as predicted, though they had not targeted the outlaying village this time, but rather Camelot herself. It also appeared that they had far more than a single beast at their disposal.
Merlin accompanied Arthur as he rode out to face this latest threat, no one questioning him as it had become habit long ago. He stayed back enough so as to seem unobtrusive, yet close enough to be in place should he be needed.
He was, of course, needed. Not that anyone knew. Not that anyone could know, not without the threat of death hanging above him. The beasts were controlled not by the mercenaries, but by the sorcerer they had paid to do their bidding. Merlin was able to target the sorcerer and take him down with minimal fuss. Once he went, so did the control of the beasts. They much preferred their freedom, but were worked up enough from the preceding battle that they managed to do nearly as much harm in their escape as they had in their initial attack.
The knights did their jobs and Arthur did his and soon enough the battle was over and the mercenaries were either safely shackled for their journey to the dungeons, or lie dead on the open expanse of once pristine prairie.
Merlin followed Arthur back to his rooms and took note of the new limp and the way he clearly favoured his right side. Sure enough, as the heavy armour was peeled away, fresh damage lay atop bruises that had not had enough time to fully bloom.
Merlin cleaned the worst of it away and knew Arthur would much rather sleep in his bed than in the tub, so he promised a warm bath would be prepared for the next morning, knowing it would help ease the muscles that would no doubt lock up over the short bit of night that still remained.
With Arthur settled, he took a closer look at the replacement armour. He noted the dings and dents and tried to figure out which ones he could handle on his own and which ones he would need more trained assistance with. He then began the almost meditative task of removing the broken links, setting the bent bits of metal to the side and soothing his hand over the remaining layers to search out any snags or sharp edges.
Task complete, he carefully picked up the loose pieces and poured them into his little pouch, the clinking almost melodic had he not know the source. He reached to tie the pouch closed, but found his hand stilled by another.
He had not even heard Arthur approach, but he did hear the confused voice as the prince asked, “What are you doing?”
“I am preparing the armour for repair,” Merlin replied after a pause to swallow. It was the truth after all.
“And this?” Arthur asked, lifting the pouch. It was then that Merlin realised that, in his rush to answer Arthur’s summons, he had dumped the entire project in the pouch, the weight of it far more than a few broken links.
Arthur noticed at the same time he did and tugged the pouch fully out of his reach. Merlin numbly made a rough grab at it, but did not even know why he continued to collect the little pieces of metal, let alone why he would want to keep it from anyone.
Arthur dumped the pouch’s contents out on his table, clearly noting Merlin’s wince as several of the links skittered away. He picked up the pseudo-gauntlet and carefully eyed the workmanship, which even Merlin had to admit had gotten far better over time. He fingered the clasp and raised his eyebrows, likely knowing exactly where it came from. “Stealing from your prince?” he asked, voice modulated to be purposefully bland. It was not accusing, but it was not quite understanding either.
Merlin stood and tried not to visibly reach out towards the creation. “They were broken anyway, Geof would have just discarded them,” he said in explanation.
“You have a right to armour, Merlin,” Arthur said, strangely not angry. “God knows, you follow me into battle often enough; I don’t know why you haven’t asked for any before.” He picked up the links and weighed them calculatingly. “There is no reason for you to make your own, let alone for you to do so out of inferior materials.”
“It’s not that,” Merlin blurted before he could stop himself. He reached out now and took the gauntlet from Arthur’s hands, placed it in his own and carefully picked up every scattered link.
“Then what is it?” Arthur asked, so reasonable it hurt.
“It’s...” Merlin started, but was not sure how to end, not sure what to say that would not make him sound crazy. The way Arthur looked at him, not saying anything was doing that job just fine so he finally let it all out and said, “Do you know how many times you have been injured? Do you know how many times you have nearly died? If I wasn’t... If the knights and fate and everything else were not on your side, do you have any idea what would have happened a thousand times over by now? This, this is a reminder to me. It tells me to be more vigilant, to be more careful, because everyone and the cook knows there is no way you will be.”
He paused and breathed heavily, knowing he spoke out of turn and knowing Arthur had every right to ridicule him, every right to take back what was his and leave Merlin empty handed and with absolutely nothing to show for his efforts.
Instead, Arthur turned and looked him right in the eye and said, “Yes.” Then, just as quickly, he turned away.
“I – what?” Merlin asked, truly confused.
Arthur did not turn back to him, but looked to the fire that sputtered fitfully in the hearth as he said, “I know. I don’t want to, but I know.”
Then, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, he calmly walked back towards his bed. He paused along the way and bent down to pick up a ring near his bare foot. He walked back to Merlin and placed it in his hand with the others and, without looking him in the eye, repeated, “I know.”
Years later, Arthur rode out to battle with the crown of a king upon his head instead of that of a prince, Merlin faithfully at his side. The sorcerer’s own armour shone with the uneven shine of the efforts of his own incompetent manservant, but no one dared say a word about it. They also never dared to say a word about the interesting and intricate gauntlet he wore, many links permanently dulled with age and none anywhere near perfectly round.
Arthur looked to Merlin and his eyes traced down to that gauntlet, a wry smile alight upon his face. “Ready?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
Merlin nodded and readied his staff, the links upon his arm jingling in quiet invocation.
Together, they charged into battle. Together, they claimed victory.
Feedback is always welcomed.
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