"Sparks" (Oneshot)
Title: “Sparks”
Author: caughtfire(x-posted to my dreamwidth, juxtapose)
Rating/Genre: PG-13, fluff
Pairing(s): eventual Merthur, a bit of Gwen/Lancelot
Summary: Merlin wants to know what love feels like.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Merlin.
Merlin remembers being the wide-eyed age of eight, sitting on his mother's knee as she knitted him a sweater. It was a chilly winter evening, and Merlin felt the lazy, happy weight of comfort as he snuggled into his mother's arms.
"Mother," he said, the end of the word turned up in a curious question.
"Yes, my boy?"
"What does love feel like?"
Hunith abruptly paused in her task, peering down at her son quizzically. "There's all different kinds of love, Merlin. There are many ways to love someone."
Merlin shook his head and replied, "Not like I love you, or how Will loves the little dog that lives down the road." He met eyes with his mother thoughtfully. "But . . . the kind like Garreth and Mary. I saw them holding hands today."
Hunith chuckled, although Merlin didn't think what he said had been particularly funny. "Garreth and Mary are much older than you, Merlin," she said, "You've got your whole life ahead of you."
"But what's it like?" Merlin pressed on, "To be in love?"
A wistful look passed across Hunith's eyes, and she said, "That's not something I can tell you, darling."
"Why not?"
Hunith placed her knitting on the table beside her, pulling Merlin into an embrace, and he rested his head on her shoulder. "Because it's something you must see for yourself. When you find that special someone, whoever they may be, you will know. You will feel it, like a spark, igniting inside you."
Merlin grimaced just a bit. If love caused you to feel as if you were on fire, he wasn't sure he wanted any part of it. He reached a small hand toward the lit fireplace, and, as his eyes glowed yellow, he made it dance into all shapes and sizes. Hunith smiled.
He fell asleep that night thinking of bright, orange-yellow sparks.
* * *
"It feels like a warm hug," said Will matter-of-factly, his mouth stuffed with his mother's famous home-made biscuits.
Merlin nibbled on a piece of bread, his eyebrows raised. "A bit sentimental of you, huh, Will?"
Merlin and his best friend were fifteen, young and full of energy that coursed ceaselessly through them, as they made to discover themselves and the world around them. They sat at Will's house, having just finished a plethora of chores.
Will shrugged. "Hey, it's just what I've been told. M'sister Alice is getting married soon, you know."
"To Tim a few houses over. I know," Merlin commented, because everyone knew everyone in Ealdor, "They're a good match."
"Anyway," Will went on, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms behind his head, "Alice used to go on and on about Tim, you know, back when she fancied him from afar. And when she finally caught his eye, and he, as she put it--" Will rolled his eyes a bit, "--'Captured her heart', Alice told me the whole thing just made her feel warm. All over. Like a hug."
"Or like sparks. Sparks of fire," Merlin said thoughtfully.
"Maybe." Another eyeroll. "Girls. But hey, for all we know she's right."
Merlin nodded slowly, and Will added, "What do you think it feels like, Merlin?"
"I don't know," Merlin said truthfully, staring down at his worn hands, "I think I just imagine it to be perfect."
Will leaned over to punch his arm. "A bit sentimental of you, eh, Merlin?"
"Oi!"
They chased each other around the front yard until dark.
* * *
On the vibrant green fields of Castle Camelot, Merlin stood next to Sir Lancelot, Sir Percival spar with Prince Arthur.
Lancelot wiped some sweat from his brow, smiling down at Merlin, who said, "Is he working you too hard?"
"As always," Lancelot retorted, still grinning. He sighed, casting a glance back to the castle, and then said, quietly, "How is Guinevere?"
Merlin had wondered how long it would take for Lancelot to ask. "She's well."
"I have not spoken with her in some time. I suppose that's the way it should be." Lancelot's voice dripped with sadness, like raindrops.
And Merlin said, just as quietly, "You really love her, don't you?"
"More than anything."
And before Merlin could stop himself, the question was there, loud: "What's it like? Being in love?"
Lancelot looked a bit surprised at first before replying with his own question: "Haven't you ever been in love, Merlin?"
Almost, he thought. And Merlin thought of Freya, the girl who'd left him all too soon, for whom there had been no time for love. But that was long over, now.
Merlin was just about to speak in reply when he noticed Arthur marching toward them, looking quite annoyed. "Merlin," he said accusingly, pointing to his shoulder, "My armor's loose. I wonder whose fault that is."
"Well hold still, you prat, so I can fix it," Merlin replied teasingly, welcoming their usual banter with a small grin.
"If you'd put my armor on correctly in the first place, you idiot, we wouldn't be having this problem, would we? I don't like stalling my knights' training. You know that."
"Yes, sire." Merlin fiddled with the stubborn pauldron on Prince Arthur's shoulder before stepping back. "There--oh." Merlin reached up, straightening the gorget at Arthur's neck.
"What're you doing? It should be fine." Arthur asked, eyebrows raised.
"Can't risk it, can we? I just don't want you to get hurt," Merlin replied honestly, looking at his shoes, "That's all."
Arthur's face softened a bit at this, and he said, "Yes, well. I suppose you wouldn't."
And then Arthur lifted a gloved hand, pressing a finger against the side of Merlin's face. Merlin took in a breath, peering at Arthur with big eyes as Arthur lightly traced his finger against Merlin's cheek.
"You, uh, had some dirt on your face," Arthur muttered. He clapped Lancelot on the shoulder before turning to walk back to the training field.
They always had moments like these, he and Arthur. Arthur was destined to become a great king, and Merlin was destined to help him, as a servant and as a confidant. Arthur infiltrated Merlin's every waking thought, and now, as he pondered it, he realized he couldn't remember a time when a brush of Arthur's hand against his, or the sound of Arthur's laughter, didn't make him feel this way. Warm.
After a beat, Lancelot repeated his question. "So, Merlin? Have you ever been in love?"
But Merlin barely heard the knight speaking beside him, as he found his heart to be beating just a bit too fast, a blush on his face that rested in the remnants of Arthur's touch.
* * *
One night, unexpected and wonderful, Merlin finds himself very much in love.
It had begun with one kiss in the darkness of Arthur's chambers which had led to another, and another, until Merlin lost himself in Arthur and Arthur in him, and it became something they knew they had wanted for a very long time.
Arthur kisses Merlin's neck as he holds him, and Merlin leans back against Arthur's chest, feeling the ever-drumming rhythm of his heartbeat, thinking.
He'd been so busy relying on the definitions of love that others had made, that he hadn't stopped to think about that which his own heart had created. That which he and Arthur had created.
For Merlin, 'love' had been every time Arthur held onto Merlin's arm just a little bit too long out in the woods. It had been Merlin's heart thumping wildly out of his chest whenever Arthur cracked a smile in his direction. It was the way Arthur was willing to die for Merlin and vice versa without a second thought. 'Love' had always been, ironically, Merlin's shouts of "dollophead!" and Arthur's replies of, "idiot!". And 'love' had been every night Merlin had fallen asleep thinking of the person he hadn't a clue was thinking about him all along, too.
Of course it isn't perfect. But love, Merlin realizes, isn't about perfection at all. It's about accepting and understanding all the imperfections, and wanting them all the same.
"What are you thinking about?" Arthur whispers, leaning to brush his lips against Merlin's, and then it happens.
Merlin feels a tingling warmth flow through him, filling him up, and he feels as if he'll burst with it until it settles, sparkling, in his chest, making his heart beat erratically. He remembers being the wide-eyed age of eight...
"Sparks," Merlin says suddenly, closing his eyes and letting a slow smile make its way onto his lips.
He hears Arthur, voice low and rumbly and a bit beautiful, "Hm?"
"Nothing," Merlin replies, reaching out to find Arthur's hand, clasping it and entwining their fingers. "It's just that I think I love you."
"Huh." Arthur pulls Merlin tighter against him. "I suppose that works out quite nicely then, since I may just love you, too."
So Merlin falls asleep in Arthur's arms thinking of bright, orange-yellow sparks, and imagines they glow bright inside him, guiding him and Arthur to their patiently awaiting destiny.
Author: caughtfire(x-posted to my dreamwidth, juxtapose)
Rating/Genre: PG-13, fluff
Pairing(s): eventual Merthur, a bit of Gwen/Lancelot
Summary: Merlin wants to know what love feels like.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Merlin.
Merlin remembers being the wide-eyed age of eight, sitting on his mother's knee as she knitted him a sweater. It was a chilly winter evening, and Merlin felt the lazy, happy weight of comfort as he snuggled into his mother's arms.
"Mother," he said, the end of the word turned up in a curious question.
"Yes, my boy?"
"What does love feel like?"
Hunith abruptly paused in her task, peering down at her son quizzically. "There's all different kinds of love, Merlin. There are many ways to love someone."
Merlin shook his head and replied, "Not like I love you, or how Will loves the little dog that lives down the road." He met eyes with his mother thoughtfully. "But . . . the kind like Garreth and Mary. I saw them holding hands today."
Hunith chuckled, although Merlin didn't think what he said had been particularly funny. "Garreth and Mary are much older than you, Merlin," she said, "You've got your whole life ahead of you."
"But what's it like?" Merlin pressed on, "To be in love?"
A wistful look passed across Hunith's eyes, and she said, "That's not something I can tell you, darling."
"Why not?"
Hunith placed her knitting on the table beside her, pulling Merlin into an embrace, and he rested his head on her shoulder. "Because it's something you must see for yourself. When you find that special someone, whoever they may be, you will know. You will feel it, like a spark, igniting inside you."
Merlin grimaced just a bit. If love caused you to feel as if you were on fire, he wasn't sure he wanted any part of it. He reached a small hand toward the lit fireplace, and, as his eyes glowed yellow, he made it dance into all shapes and sizes. Hunith smiled.
He fell asleep that night thinking of bright, orange-yellow sparks.
* * *
"It feels like a warm hug," said Will matter-of-factly, his mouth stuffed with his mother's famous home-made biscuits.
Merlin nibbled on a piece of bread, his eyebrows raised. "A bit sentimental of you, huh, Will?"
Merlin and his best friend were fifteen, young and full of energy that coursed ceaselessly through them, as they made to discover themselves and the world around them. They sat at Will's house, having just finished a plethora of chores.
Will shrugged. "Hey, it's just what I've been told. M'sister Alice is getting married soon, you know."
"To Tim a few houses over. I know," Merlin commented, because everyone knew everyone in Ealdor, "They're a good match."
"Anyway," Will went on, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms behind his head, "Alice used to go on and on about Tim, you know, back when she fancied him from afar. And when she finally caught his eye, and he, as she put it--" Will rolled his eyes a bit, "--'Captured her heart', Alice told me the whole thing just made her feel warm. All over. Like a hug."
"Or like sparks. Sparks of fire," Merlin said thoughtfully.
"Maybe." Another eyeroll. "Girls. But hey, for all we know she's right."
Merlin nodded slowly, and Will added, "What do you think it feels like, Merlin?"
"I don't know," Merlin said truthfully, staring down at his worn hands, "I think I just imagine it to be perfect."
Will leaned over to punch his arm. "A bit sentimental of you, eh, Merlin?"
"Oi!"
They chased each other around the front yard until dark.
* * *
On the vibrant green fields of Castle Camelot, Merlin stood next to Sir Lancelot, Sir Percival spar with Prince Arthur.
Lancelot wiped some sweat from his brow, smiling down at Merlin, who said, "Is he working you too hard?"
"As always," Lancelot retorted, still grinning. He sighed, casting a glance back to the castle, and then said, quietly, "How is Guinevere?"
Merlin had wondered how long it would take for Lancelot to ask. "She's well."
"I have not spoken with her in some time. I suppose that's the way it should be." Lancelot's voice dripped with sadness, like raindrops.
And Merlin said, just as quietly, "You really love her, don't you?"
"More than anything."
And before Merlin could stop himself, the question was there, loud: "What's it like? Being in love?"
Lancelot looked a bit surprised at first before replying with his own question: "Haven't you ever been in love, Merlin?"
Almost, he thought. And Merlin thought of Freya, the girl who'd left him all too soon, for whom there had been no time for love. But that was long over, now.
Merlin was just about to speak in reply when he noticed Arthur marching toward them, looking quite annoyed. "Merlin," he said accusingly, pointing to his shoulder, "My armor's loose. I wonder whose fault that is."
"Well hold still, you prat, so I can fix it," Merlin replied teasingly, welcoming their usual banter with a small grin.
"If you'd put my armor on correctly in the first place, you idiot, we wouldn't be having this problem, would we? I don't like stalling my knights' training. You know that."
"Yes, sire." Merlin fiddled with the stubborn pauldron on Prince Arthur's shoulder before stepping back. "There--oh." Merlin reached up, straightening the gorget at Arthur's neck.
"What're you doing? It should be fine." Arthur asked, eyebrows raised.
"Can't risk it, can we? I just don't want you to get hurt," Merlin replied honestly, looking at his shoes, "That's all."
Arthur's face softened a bit at this, and he said, "Yes, well. I suppose you wouldn't."
And then Arthur lifted a gloved hand, pressing a finger against the side of Merlin's face. Merlin took in a breath, peering at Arthur with big eyes as Arthur lightly traced his finger against Merlin's cheek.
"You, uh, had some dirt on your face," Arthur muttered. He clapped Lancelot on the shoulder before turning to walk back to the training field.
They always had moments like these, he and Arthur. Arthur was destined to become a great king, and Merlin was destined to help him, as a servant and as a confidant. Arthur infiltrated Merlin's every waking thought, and now, as he pondered it, he realized he couldn't remember a time when a brush of Arthur's hand against his, or the sound of Arthur's laughter, didn't make him feel this way. Warm.
After a beat, Lancelot repeated his question. "So, Merlin? Have you ever been in love?"
But Merlin barely heard the knight speaking beside him, as he found his heart to be beating just a bit too fast, a blush on his face that rested in the remnants of Arthur's touch.
* * *
One night, unexpected and wonderful, Merlin finds himself very much in love.
It had begun with one kiss in the darkness of Arthur's chambers which had led to another, and another, until Merlin lost himself in Arthur and Arthur in him, and it became something they knew they had wanted for a very long time.
Arthur kisses Merlin's neck as he holds him, and Merlin leans back against Arthur's chest, feeling the ever-drumming rhythm of his heartbeat, thinking.
He'd been so busy relying on the definitions of love that others had made, that he hadn't stopped to think about that which his own heart had created. That which he and Arthur had created.
For Merlin, 'love' had been every time Arthur held onto Merlin's arm just a little bit too long out in the woods. It had been Merlin's heart thumping wildly out of his chest whenever Arthur cracked a smile in his direction. It was the way Arthur was willing to die for Merlin and vice versa without a second thought. 'Love' had always been, ironically, Merlin's shouts of "dollophead!" and Arthur's replies of, "idiot!". And 'love' had been every night Merlin had fallen asleep thinking of the person he hadn't a clue was thinking about him all along, too.
Of course it isn't perfect. But love, Merlin realizes, isn't about perfection at all. It's about accepting and understanding all the imperfections, and wanting them all the same.
"What are you thinking about?" Arthur whispers, leaning to brush his lips against Merlin's, and then it happens.
Merlin feels a tingling warmth flow through him, filling him up, and he feels as if he'll burst with it until it settles, sparkling, in his chest, making his heart beat erratically. He remembers being the wide-eyed age of eight...
"Sparks," Merlin says suddenly, closing his eyes and letting a slow smile make its way onto his lips.
He hears Arthur, voice low and rumbly and a bit beautiful, "Hm?"
"Nothing," Merlin replies, reaching out to find Arthur's hand, clasping it and entwining their fingers. "It's just that I think I love you."
"Huh." Arthur pulls Merlin tighter against him. "I suppose that works out quite nicely then, since I may just love you, too."
So Merlin falls asleep in Arthur's arms thinking of bright, orange-yellow sparks, and imagines they glow bright inside him, guiding him and Arthur to their patiently awaiting destiny.