Fic: Merlin; G; Crisis of Faith;
I'm not obsessed, why do you ask?
Title: Crisis of Faith
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: G (back in my comfort zone ^_^)
Pairing/Characters: Merlin, Arthur, Hunith, Gaius (vaguely) mentions of the slash dragon. Merlin/Arthur pre-slash or friendship
Disclaimer: In case you didn't get this the last two times - I don't own them
Warnings: None? Introspective as hell?
Spoilers: 1x13 MAJORLY!
Author’s Note: Thanks to wrennette again, who is a god among betas... Jumping on the finale coda bandwagon.
Summary: Coda for episode 1x13. Returning after the events of the finale, Merlin suffers a crisis of faith. Arthur solves some problems for him.
It is not until Merlin returns to Camelot, laughing with relief and exhaustion, that he allows it to filter through. It is not until he hugs his mother, so tightly he can feel the muscles in his arms burn, that he allows himself to think about it. It is not until she looks at him with that calm gaze he has known all his life, the one that tells him she knows what he was trying to do, that he allows himself the time to think - the time to breathe.
The dragon’s only purpose - its only desire - was freedom. It manipulated everything to that end. It would have taken his mother.
Was anything true?
The question hits him like a Knight on horseback at full gallop. Was any of it true? Does he truly have a destiny? Will Arthur be the King Merlin thinks he can? How much was lies, how much was truth? Can he trust in himself now? Should he trust in Arthur?
Arthur who would die for him…
His mother can tell; Hunith can always tell when there’s something on his mind that even he cannot fathom. She touches his shoulder gently, her hands free once more from the disfiguring marks. She is warm and alive and he holds that in his mind: she is alive and the dragon is imprisoned and that is how it will stay.
But Arthur…
He knows that Gaius is staring at him, and he knows he has not said anything since he walked through the door. He looks into his mother’s eyes and she smiles a little sadly at him.
“Go,” she says, and that one word is enough to free him from the paralysis. It cuts through the questions and forces him to look towards the answer. But…
“But you…” he begins and her hand drifts up to his cheek, warm, soft and loving like it has always been. She is alive; she is well, but he is having a crisis of faith bigger than any he has ever known.
He never expected destiny; he never wanted it. He feels as though he has grown into it, though, and shaped himself to its form, like liquid metal poured into a mould. It felt right and safe to know his place. The knowledge that he was where he was supposed to be had supported him, encouraged him, made him strong. He had stood on the edge, looking out into the dark, but it had been okay because there had been destiny and there had been Arthur…
And now the destiny has been ripped from beneath his feet - and Arthur…
“Go,” his mother repeats, more firmly this time. Merlin can feel Gaius looking at him with his puzzled expression, the one he uses when diagnosing a particularly odd illness, but he does not glance over. He just turns and runs, his mother laughing after him. He knows the words on her lips, although he is too far away to hear them when they come: always the same.
He bounds down the corridors, almost knocking over several of the other servants, to whom he yells out garbled apologies when he’s already half a corridor away. They push to the walls and let him through as he whirls past doors and up stairways, tracing a route he knows almost better than his own name.
When he arrives at Arthur’s door, he is out of breath, and his heart is hammering manically. The door in front of him is huge and solid and he does not want to push it open, because he has no idea what he will find.
He would willingly, happily, serve Arthur until the day he dies. But is this what he thinks it is? Arthur is a prat: an arrogant moron who couldn’t tell magic if it came up and hit him on the nose wearing a big pointy hat (with feathers) emblazoned with the words ‘I am magic’. Is his destiny really here? Months ago he would have hoped not; he would have begged on his knees for his destiny to lie elsewhere, or for his future to remain unwritten. But now… he has seen too much to wish for that, but had it only been illusion; had Arthur actually changed, or did Merlin just see things the way he thought he should see them?
He held up his hand to knock, then looked at it in disbelief.
He did not knock.
So he pushed the door open and walked in.
“Merlin,” Arthur said, looking at him in exasperation. “I’ve had people looking for you everywhere! Where have you been?” Merlin stares at the Prince, analysing everything: the tilt of Arthur’s head, the angle of his eyebrow, the twitch of wry amusement at the corner of his mouth as he takes in Merlin’s appearance. “Honestly, what? Did you enrage the cooks again?” Arthur asks, as though he hasn’t been missing for a whole day and didn’t pretty much say that he was going to die last time they spoke (but then Arthur was always a bit slow). “You know what happened last time you did that - I got the dry end of the roast for three weeks.”
But there is a twinge of something there, something that Merlin can see, it is real and tangible: a line of worry that almost creases the royal brow, a hint in his eyes that something is not quite right, and the usual bluster seems over the top.
“My mother,” Merlin says tentatively, not quite ready to commit yet. He could be mistaken, he has been before. “She was ill… she came to us in the night. She almost…” he pauses, unable to say the word as betrayal washes over him. But then he sees it, what he needed in Arthur’s eyes.
Sympathy, compassion, concern.
“Is she alright?” Arthur asks quickly, striding towards him, somehow still looking completely competent and Princely even in his sling. Merlin has to smile at that. You could cut off all his limbs and Arthur would still have the bearing of a Prince.
“Yes, sire,” he says, and the relief in Arthur’s eyes is almost as great as he imagines it must be in his own. Their gazes connect fully and there is so much understanding between them that Merlin can almost forget that Arthur sometimes doesn’t know him at all. “But I had to…” he doesn’t finish that sentence, he doesn’t have to. Arthur nods in understanding and he need not lie for once.
“Good… Does she need anything?” Arthur asks. “The castle will happily provide…”
“It’s fine Arthur,” he says. Then it all clicks into place as Arthur places a tentative hand on his arm. It is all fine, because maybe this was his destiny or maybe the dragon was lying through his teeth, but he knows Arthur. He knows Arthur will be a good King, a great King, and he wants to make that happen. Dragons in caves with ineffable knowledge be damned. He will make this his destiny.
“I suppose that explains why you were acting oddly before,” Arthur says, abruptly removing his hand and turning away, severing the moment before it could go on too long. They are still servant and master after all and moments will not do. “More oddly than usual, I mean. All that stuff about ‘the day you die’. You should have just told me, Merlin. You know what I told you about trying to be mysterious.”
Merlin is grinning as he makes his way back to the door.
“Right. Yes,” he says, backing away, his eyes glued to Arthur’s back. “I shouldn’t do it, because I’m not interesting,” he says, wondering if Arthur will ever find out just how interesting he is. “Anyway, I just came to tell you why I hadn’t been here. Now I…”
“Yes,” Arthur says, turning and picking up his goblet from the table. He nods to the door, his eyes still softer than usual with understanding. “Go to your mother, although I do pity the poor woman, having to put up with you fussing around her. You’re dreadful at doing work for people.” But there is an undertone there that Merlin can read so easily.
“Worst manservant you’ve ever had,” Merlin agrees willingly and Arthur nods.
“At least you’ve got the sense to admit it,” the Prince replies, taking a sip of the wine. “Now go before she thinks you got yourself lost,” Merlin turns and opens the door. “And…” Arthur hesitates, like he always does before he says something that feels too much like kindness, “tell her I wish her good health, and if she needs anything she just has to ask.”
“Thank you, sire.” Merlin tells him, and for once, as he walks away, he knows that he meant it. There was no sarcasm in that ‘sire’, because one day Arthur will be a great King… just as long as he stops being a prat.
-
Title: Crisis of Faith
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: G (back in my comfort zone ^_^)
Pairing/Characters: Merlin, Arthur, Hunith, Gaius (vaguely) mentions of the slash dragon. Merlin/Arthur pre-slash or friendship
Disclaimer: In case you didn't get this the last two times - I don't own them
Warnings: None? Introspective as hell?
Spoilers: 1x13 MAJORLY!
Author’s Note: Thanks to wrennette again, who is a god among betas... Jumping on the finale coda bandwagon.
Summary: Coda for episode 1x13. Returning after the events of the finale, Merlin suffers a crisis of faith. Arthur solves some problems for him.
It is not until Merlin returns to Camelot, laughing with relief and exhaustion, that he allows it to filter through. It is not until he hugs his mother, so tightly he can feel the muscles in his arms burn, that he allows himself to think about it. It is not until she looks at him with that calm gaze he has known all his life, the one that tells him she knows what he was trying to do, that he allows himself the time to think - the time to breathe.
The dragon’s only purpose - its only desire - was freedom. It manipulated everything to that end. It would have taken his mother.
Was anything true?
The question hits him like a Knight on horseback at full gallop. Was any of it true? Does he truly have a destiny? Will Arthur be the King Merlin thinks he can? How much was lies, how much was truth? Can he trust in himself now? Should he trust in Arthur?
Arthur who would die for him…
His mother can tell; Hunith can always tell when there’s something on his mind that even he cannot fathom. She touches his shoulder gently, her hands free once more from the disfiguring marks. She is warm and alive and he holds that in his mind: she is alive and the dragon is imprisoned and that is how it will stay.
But Arthur…
He knows that Gaius is staring at him, and he knows he has not said anything since he walked through the door. He looks into his mother’s eyes and she smiles a little sadly at him.
“Go,” she says, and that one word is enough to free him from the paralysis. It cuts through the questions and forces him to look towards the answer. But…
“But you…” he begins and her hand drifts up to his cheek, warm, soft and loving like it has always been. She is alive; she is well, but he is having a crisis of faith bigger than any he has ever known.
He never expected destiny; he never wanted it. He feels as though he has grown into it, though, and shaped himself to its form, like liquid metal poured into a mould. It felt right and safe to know his place. The knowledge that he was where he was supposed to be had supported him, encouraged him, made him strong. He had stood on the edge, looking out into the dark, but it had been okay because there had been destiny and there had been Arthur…
And now the destiny has been ripped from beneath his feet - and Arthur…
“Go,” his mother repeats, more firmly this time. Merlin can feel Gaius looking at him with his puzzled expression, the one he uses when diagnosing a particularly odd illness, but he does not glance over. He just turns and runs, his mother laughing after him. He knows the words on her lips, although he is too far away to hear them when they come: always the same.
He bounds down the corridors, almost knocking over several of the other servants, to whom he yells out garbled apologies when he’s already half a corridor away. They push to the walls and let him through as he whirls past doors and up stairways, tracing a route he knows almost better than his own name.
When he arrives at Arthur’s door, he is out of breath, and his heart is hammering manically. The door in front of him is huge and solid and he does not want to push it open, because he has no idea what he will find.
He would willingly, happily, serve Arthur until the day he dies. But is this what he thinks it is? Arthur is a prat: an arrogant moron who couldn’t tell magic if it came up and hit him on the nose wearing a big pointy hat (with feathers) emblazoned with the words ‘I am magic’. Is his destiny really here? Months ago he would have hoped not; he would have begged on his knees for his destiny to lie elsewhere, or for his future to remain unwritten. But now… he has seen too much to wish for that, but had it only been illusion; had Arthur actually changed, or did Merlin just see things the way he thought he should see them?
He held up his hand to knock, then looked at it in disbelief.
He did not knock.
So he pushed the door open and walked in.
“Merlin,” Arthur said, looking at him in exasperation. “I’ve had people looking for you everywhere! Where have you been?” Merlin stares at the Prince, analysing everything: the tilt of Arthur’s head, the angle of his eyebrow, the twitch of wry amusement at the corner of his mouth as he takes in Merlin’s appearance. “Honestly, what? Did you enrage the cooks again?” Arthur asks, as though he hasn’t been missing for a whole day and didn’t pretty much say that he was going to die last time they spoke (but then Arthur was always a bit slow). “You know what happened last time you did that - I got the dry end of the roast for three weeks.”
But there is a twinge of something there, something that Merlin can see, it is real and tangible: a line of worry that almost creases the royal brow, a hint in his eyes that something is not quite right, and the usual bluster seems over the top.
“My mother,” Merlin says tentatively, not quite ready to commit yet. He could be mistaken, he has been before. “She was ill… she came to us in the night. She almost…” he pauses, unable to say the word as betrayal washes over him. But then he sees it, what he needed in Arthur’s eyes.
Sympathy, compassion, concern.
“Is she alright?” Arthur asks quickly, striding towards him, somehow still looking completely competent and Princely even in his sling. Merlin has to smile at that. You could cut off all his limbs and Arthur would still have the bearing of a Prince.
“Yes, sire,” he says, and the relief in Arthur’s eyes is almost as great as he imagines it must be in his own. Their gazes connect fully and there is so much understanding between them that Merlin can almost forget that Arthur sometimes doesn’t know him at all. “But I had to…” he doesn’t finish that sentence, he doesn’t have to. Arthur nods in understanding and he need not lie for once.
“Good… Does she need anything?” Arthur asks. “The castle will happily provide…”
“It’s fine Arthur,” he says. Then it all clicks into place as Arthur places a tentative hand on his arm. It is all fine, because maybe this was his destiny or maybe the dragon was lying through his teeth, but he knows Arthur. He knows Arthur will be a good King, a great King, and he wants to make that happen. Dragons in caves with ineffable knowledge be damned. He will make this his destiny.
“I suppose that explains why you were acting oddly before,” Arthur says, abruptly removing his hand and turning away, severing the moment before it could go on too long. They are still servant and master after all and moments will not do. “More oddly than usual, I mean. All that stuff about ‘the day you die’. You should have just told me, Merlin. You know what I told you about trying to be mysterious.”
Merlin is grinning as he makes his way back to the door.
“Right. Yes,” he says, backing away, his eyes glued to Arthur’s back. “I shouldn’t do it, because I’m not interesting,” he says, wondering if Arthur will ever find out just how interesting he is. “Anyway, I just came to tell you why I hadn’t been here. Now I…”
“Yes,” Arthur says, turning and picking up his goblet from the table. He nods to the door, his eyes still softer than usual with understanding. “Go to your mother, although I do pity the poor woman, having to put up with you fussing around her. You’re dreadful at doing work for people.” But there is an undertone there that Merlin can read so easily.
“Worst manservant you’ve ever had,” Merlin agrees willingly and Arthur nods.
“At least you’ve got the sense to admit it,” the Prince replies, taking a sip of the wine. “Now go before she thinks you got yourself lost,” Merlin turns and opens the door. “And…” Arthur hesitates, like he always does before he says something that feels too much like kindness, “tell her I wish her good health, and if she needs anything she just has to ask.”
“Thank you, sire.” Merlin tells him, and for once, as he walks away, he knows that he meant it. There was no sarcasm in that ‘sire’, because one day Arthur will be a great King… just as long as he stops being a prat.
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