Fic: Merlin; PG-13; The Walls Have Ears
Title: The Walls Have Ears
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: Merlin/Arthur, Merlin, Arthur, Camelot, mentions of Morgana and Gaius.
Disclaimer: If I owned Merlin… there wouldn’t be a lot of difference actually, except there’d be a second, late night edition, which would have all the parts we know are in there.
Warnings: A little crack-y… Implications.
Spoilers: Up to Le Morte D’Arthur
Author’s Note: Thanks again wrennette for the beta work. I wanted this to be more cracky, I really did, but then it became a little too angsty.
I really want to write more crack. I want a crack meme… but, being a complete wuss, I don’t want to start one when I don’t know whether people would join in…
Summary: The walls have ears… and mouths. Merlin starts learning things, some of which he really wishes he could unlearn.
When the walls start speaking to him, Merlin is sure that the months of juggling his duties with saving the Prince, while keeping his own neck off the chopping block have taken their toll and he has become hopelessly, unalterably mad.
When he finds a note in the magic book that describes how everything is connected and everything has a consciousness, he wonders whether this was supposed to happen all along. It is like what he felt when he called the lightning on the Isle of the Blest: he is becoming connected to things.
It’s not just walls either. When he goes out hunting with Arthur the trees whisper in his ear as he passes them by. Their voices are rustling and sweet where the walls’ are deep, rough and hard. He doesn’t understand at first, but a few minutes later the whole forest has come to life for him. He could tell Arthur where anything is, including the young stag he is chasing. But he doesn’t The knowledge has such responsibility that he almost cowers under its weight..
Merlin spends so much time listening to the trees in their meandering conversations that he doesn’t hear Arthur hissing for him to hurry up, and please not trip over his own feet this time. Eventually he does so, all the while trying to ignore the fact that the grass he is walking on keeps asking him not to tread on it.
Back in the castle, the walls begin again. They speak slowly about the world, about their years of life and he can hear the age of the stone, and the strength that imbues them. The warlock listens to Camelot around him, and he begins to learn more about it than he had ever thought possible.
The doors creak greetings to him as he passes through them, and they call him Emrys in a way that sounds familiar. Perhaps they have always done so and he was never able to understand before now.
If it had happened a few months ago, Merlin would have gone to see the dragon. But that link has been severed, and he has no desire to reforge it, even as the stones mutter about rage and fire. He will cope with this on his own, he must.
But they don’t shut up.
He learns that walls do not just talk of weighty matters: they are worse gossips than the cooks, and he can hear every word of it as he passes through the corridors.
He hears things about Morgana that he will never be able to forget, and for a week every time he looks at her he blushes the colour of Arthur’s tunic. She is confused, but if she knew that he knew…
He had no idea that was even possible.
He tries telling them to be quiet, but the walls laugh at him in their low chuckles and tell him that there is nothing better to do with their time. They have been standing for many years, and they will be standing for many more and if he has any suggestions, they would be more than willing to entertain them. He doesn’t.
He creeps into the library, under Geoffrey’s stern and disapproving eye, trying to find a way to shut them up. The night before, the walls of his bedroom had started reminiscing about the years when Gaius was young, detailing exploits Merlin feels would have been better forgotten. He did not sleep that night and ended up in the stocks the next morning for dropping Arthur’s dinner on the floor at the Prince’s feet.
But as soon as he enters the library, the books are calling to him too, their voices as dusty and serious as their content matter and they are all saying the same words over and over again: read me, read me, read me, voices over voices, a palimpsest of sound.
He clamps his hands over his ears and runs, knowing that Geoffrey will take Gaius aside later to discuss his mental deficiency.
He tries to make the most of it. The walls tell him that Gwen is crying down the back staircase, muttering her father’s name, and he goes to her immediately. Her eyes are red and puffy, but as soon as he appears she is on her feet again, pretending that she has been sneezing. Her smile is as bright as a torch, but he sees through it and wishes that he could not. The walls whisper their sympathy, but he cannot pass it on.
He realises, as he walks awkwardly away, that this is why they talk. They are solid and fixed, unable to move or touch or feel, and they long for it. They live through the lives of those people living within them. He asks the wall of the laundry chamber about it and it tells him a story of a castle far away, whose inhabitants moved away and whose walls had gone insane, losing themselves in loneliness until all that they could do was echo back the words of visitors in a helpless desire to communicate.
He doesn’t know if he believes it, but he stops telling them to be quiet.
One night there is a whisper of noise; the walls of his room have learnt to be considerate as long as he tells them of his day before they hear it elsewhere, but as he drifts off to sleep he hears them murmur a lament. They speak of Igraine, and how the King still mourns her. They speak of how he cries out in his sleep for her to come and how she never can. Half asleep and curious, he asks them to tell him the story of her death, and they do. When it is finished he wants to forget again, but he cannot, and now he understands.
The next morning he watches Uther in a way he never knew possible and he feels as though, from all the way across the room, he is intruding on his grief. Arthur asks him if he is okay and it is all he can do not to blurt out what the walls have told him.
Gaius comes back from visiting a patient that night to hear him yelling at thin air. He tells the walls to keep their secrets; they are not his and he does not want the knowledge. It burns inside him and when Gaius asks what is wrong he cannot answer as the walls whisper the words for him.
His eyes meet Morgana’s across the throne room the next day, and he sees the mirror of his own knowledge in her eyes. The walls tell him of her dreams, and he knows what she must be feeling. The inside of his head no longer feels like his own.
A stairway tells him that the second cook is pregnant, the feasting hall informs him that a young servant girl he bumps into has fallen in love with a knight, the corridor to the servant’s quarters wants him to know that a man died the night before.
He just wants to escape.
The walls of Arthur’s chambers are unusually quiet, for walls; they give him information sparingly. Merlin longs for the time when that sentence would not have made any sense to him. They once told him that Arthur enjoyed talking with him and he sometimes receives short descriptions of Arthur’s injuries, when they feel he should know.
The rest of the inhabitants might be subject to the walls’ gossip, but the Prince is sacrosanct. To him they give all their loyalty and Merlin wonders at how Arthur can inspire Camelot itself to love him. They have seen him grow and change, and they protect him; they mutter about it to themselves with pride and jealousy, and it is only because they have seen that Merlin does the same that they will talk of Arthur to him at all.
They call him brother sometimes, after he has saved Arthur’s life again, and he is rewarded with tales of Arthur’s childhood. He listens wordlessly, and the hours pass by more quickly than they ever have before. But they refuse to speak about the present.
Then, one day, the walls of Arthur’s chambers fall silent altogether, not even the low hum of their presence, and Merlin wonders if the magic has worn itself out, whether he has learnt all he was meant to learn.
But, as he picks up Arthur’s boots, there is a noise that he thinks would be what a wall would sound like if it were to clear its throat - if it had a throat to clear.
Merlin waits patiently, knowing that time has less meaning to them than it does to humans. A second more and the noise comes again.
They think he should know, they tell him. They think that he should be aware of some things, and they begin to talk.
His eyes widen as they tell him things that they have never told anyone. They tell him things about Arthur which make him blush and stare in amazement.
They end with a warning that he is not sure they can follow through, before falling silent again. Merlin stands in the middle of them with knowledge that he had never dared believe was true, not knowing how to use it.
That is how Arthur finds him later, when he returns from meeting with his father: standing in the middle of the room, staring at the walls, his mouth open.
Merlin is not even aware of what Arthur says to him before he moves, as fast as he can, and pushes the Prince up against the door, which complains noisily only to be shushed by the walls. He grins wickedly into Arthur’s shocked face before leaning in to kiss him again, taking his time to learn the new sensation. Arthur’s hands find their way to his hips and he is being spun around and pressed up against the wall, which feels wrong in a way he had never thought of before. That thought doesn’t have a long time to stick in his brain, though, because Arthur’s fingers are dancing over Merlin’s skin and the Prince is telling him without words that the walls were right about how long he has wanted this and what they have seen and heard when Arthur is alone in his room.
Merlin has enough presence of mind to lead them back over to the Prince’s bed and draw the curtains around them before they lose any items of clothing. The walls might be loyal, but that doesn’t mean he wants them to watch.
He is basking in afterglow and the wonderful silence of the world, except for Arthur’s contented breathing, when the bed tells him that, if this is going to be a regular occurrence, they could at least try not to be so rough.
***
-
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters: Merlin/Arthur, Merlin, Arthur, Camelot, mentions of Morgana and Gaius.
Disclaimer: If I owned Merlin… there wouldn’t be a lot of difference actually, except there’d be a second, late night edition, which would have all the parts we know are in there.
Warnings: A little crack-y… Implications.
Spoilers: Up to Le Morte D’Arthur
Author’s Note: Thanks again wrennette for the beta work. I wanted this to be more cracky, I really did, but then it became a little too angsty.
I really want to write more crack. I want a crack meme… but, being a complete wuss, I don’t want to start one when I don’t know whether people would join in…
Summary: The walls have ears… and mouths. Merlin starts learning things, some of which he really wishes he could unlearn.
When the walls start speaking to him, Merlin is sure that the months of juggling his duties with saving the Prince, while keeping his own neck off the chopping block have taken their toll and he has become hopelessly, unalterably mad.
When he finds a note in the magic book that describes how everything is connected and everything has a consciousness, he wonders whether this was supposed to happen all along. It is like what he felt when he called the lightning on the Isle of the Blest: he is becoming connected to things.
It’s not just walls either. When he goes out hunting with Arthur the trees whisper in his ear as he passes them by. Their voices are rustling and sweet where the walls’ are deep, rough and hard. He doesn’t understand at first, but a few minutes later the whole forest has come to life for him. He could tell Arthur where anything is, including the young stag he is chasing. But he doesn’t The knowledge has such responsibility that he almost cowers under its weight..
Merlin spends so much time listening to the trees in their meandering conversations that he doesn’t hear Arthur hissing for him to hurry up, and please not trip over his own feet this time. Eventually he does so, all the while trying to ignore the fact that the grass he is walking on keeps asking him not to tread on it.
Back in the castle, the walls begin again. They speak slowly about the world, about their years of life and he can hear the age of the stone, and the strength that imbues them. The warlock listens to Camelot around him, and he begins to learn more about it than he had ever thought possible.
The doors creak greetings to him as he passes through them, and they call him Emrys in a way that sounds familiar. Perhaps they have always done so and he was never able to understand before now.
If it had happened a few months ago, Merlin would have gone to see the dragon. But that link has been severed, and he has no desire to reforge it, even as the stones mutter about rage and fire. He will cope with this on his own, he must.
But they don’t shut up.
He learns that walls do not just talk of weighty matters: they are worse gossips than the cooks, and he can hear every word of it as he passes through the corridors.
He hears things about Morgana that he will never be able to forget, and for a week every time he looks at her he blushes the colour of Arthur’s tunic. She is confused, but if she knew that he knew…
He had no idea that was even possible.
He tries telling them to be quiet, but the walls laugh at him in their low chuckles and tell him that there is nothing better to do with their time. They have been standing for many years, and they will be standing for many more and if he has any suggestions, they would be more than willing to entertain them. He doesn’t.
He creeps into the library, under Geoffrey’s stern and disapproving eye, trying to find a way to shut them up. The night before, the walls of his bedroom had started reminiscing about the years when Gaius was young, detailing exploits Merlin feels would have been better forgotten. He did not sleep that night and ended up in the stocks the next morning for dropping Arthur’s dinner on the floor at the Prince’s feet.
But as soon as he enters the library, the books are calling to him too, their voices as dusty and serious as their content matter and they are all saying the same words over and over again: read me, read me, read me, voices over voices, a palimpsest of sound.
He clamps his hands over his ears and runs, knowing that Geoffrey will take Gaius aside later to discuss his mental deficiency.
He tries to make the most of it. The walls tell him that Gwen is crying down the back staircase, muttering her father’s name, and he goes to her immediately. Her eyes are red and puffy, but as soon as he appears she is on her feet again, pretending that she has been sneezing. Her smile is as bright as a torch, but he sees through it and wishes that he could not. The walls whisper their sympathy, but he cannot pass it on.
He realises, as he walks awkwardly away, that this is why they talk. They are solid and fixed, unable to move or touch or feel, and they long for it. They live through the lives of those people living within them. He asks the wall of the laundry chamber about it and it tells him a story of a castle far away, whose inhabitants moved away and whose walls had gone insane, losing themselves in loneliness until all that they could do was echo back the words of visitors in a helpless desire to communicate.
He doesn’t know if he believes it, but he stops telling them to be quiet.
One night there is a whisper of noise; the walls of his room have learnt to be considerate as long as he tells them of his day before they hear it elsewhere, but as he drifts off to sleep he hears them murmur a lament. They speak of Igraine, and how the King still mourns her. They speak of how he cries out in his sleep for her to come and how she never can. Half asleep and curious, he asks them to tell him the story of her death, and they do. When it is finished he wants to forget again, but he cannot, and now he understands.
The next morning he watches Uther in a way he never knew possible and he feels as though, from all the way across the room, he is intruding on his grief. Arthur asks him if he is okay and it is all he can do not to blurt out what the walls have told him.
Gaius comes back from visiting a patient that night to hear him yelling at thin air. He tells the walls to keep their secrets; they are not his and he does not want the knowledge. It burns inside him and when Gaius asks what is wrong he cannot answer as the walls whisper the words for him.
His eyes meet Morgana’s across the throne room the next day, and he sees the mirror of his own knowledge in her eyes. The walls tell him of her dreams, and he knows what she must be feeling. The inside of his head no longer feels like his own.
A stairway tells him that the second cook is pregnant, the feasting hall informs him that a young servant girl he bumps into has fallen in love with a knight, the corridor to the servant’s quarters wants him to know that a man died the night before.
He just wants to escape.
The walls of Arthur’s chambers are unusually quiet, for walls; they give him information sparingly. Merlin longs for the time when that sentence would not have made any sense to him. They once told him that Arthur enjoyed talking with him and he sometimes receives short descriptions of Arthur’s injuries, when they feel he should know.
The rest of the inhabitants might be subject to the walls’ gossip, but the Prince is sacrosanct. To him they give all their loyalty and Merlin wonders at how Arthur can inspire Camelot itself to love him. They have seen him grow and change, and they protect him; they mutter about it to themselves with pride and jealousy, and it is only because they have seen that Merlin does the same that they will talk of Arthur to him at all.
They call him brother sometimes, after he has saved Arthur’s life again, and he is rewarded with tales of Arthur’s childhood. He listens wordlessly, and the hours pass by more quickly than they ever have before. But they refuse to speak about the present.
Then, one day, the walls of Arthur’s chambers fall silent altogether, not even the low hum of their presence, and Merlin wonders if the magic has worn itself out, whether he has learnt all he was meant to learn.
But, as he picks up Arthur’s boots, there is a noise that he thinks would be what a wall would sound like if it were to clear its throat - if it had a throat to clear.
Merlin waits patiently, knowing that time has less meaning to them than it does to humans. A second more and the noise comes again.
They think he should know, they tell him. They think that he should be aware of some things, and they begin to talk.
His eyes widen as they tell him things that they have never told anyone. They tell him things about Arthur which make him blush and stare in amazement.
They end with a warning that he is not sure they can follow through, before falling silent again. Merlin stands in the middle of them with knowledge that he had never dared believe was true, not knowing how to use it.
That is how Arthur finds him later, when he returns from meeting with his father: standing in the middle of the room, staring at the walls, his mouth open.
Merlin is not even aware of what Arthur says to him before he moves, as fast as he can, and pushes the Prince up against the door, which complains noisily only to be shushed by the walls. He grins wickedly into Arthur’s shocked face before leaning in to kiss him again, taking his time to learn the new sensation. Arthur’s hands find their way to his hips and he is being spun around and pressed up against the wall, which feels wrong in a way he had never thought of before. That thought doesn’t have a long time to stick in his brain, though, because Arthur’s fingers are dancing over Merlin’s skin and the Prince is telling him without words that the walls were right about how long he has wanted this and what they have seen and heard when Arthur is alone in his room.
Merlin has enough presence of mind to lead them back over to the Prince’s bed and draw the curtains around them before they lose any items of clothing. The walls might be loyal, but that doesn’t mean he wants them to watch.
He is basking in afterglow and the wonderful silence of the world, except for Arthur’s contented breathing, when the bed tells him that, if this is going to be a regular occurrence, they could at least try not to be so rough.
***
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