Fic: Love from a clenched-fist man (Merlin)
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Love from a clenched-fist man
There is something about the boy...Merlin.
He can’t quite put his finger on it, but there is definitely something about him. Something that makes his teeth hurt and his body alight with the urge to fight.
(Sceaða)
The flower looks beautiful and fragile, sun-like petals indecently bright in the damp darkness, but Uther barely looks at it. His eyes are entirely focused on his son as he crushes the hard won blossom in his gloved hand. He looks straight at him, at the crumbling face of his child, at the anger and despair clouding stormy blue eyes just like his. Never glances away when he crushes another bit of Arthur’s adoration for him to dust.
His heart misses a beat, but Uther has stopped paying attention to that familiar sting a long time ago. Many think him to be heartless and cruel he knows, but very few know how much he sacrificed for Camelot, for this kingdom. He has ugly silver scars on his skin and an empty bed to prove it. He has pitch black dreams and his son’s eyes to prove it.
As he turns away, heavy cloak swirling after him, the King can’t help thinking about that sick boy, a few floors above him. And though this boy gave his life for his son without hesitation, in that very moment Uther hates him so very very much. He can feel Arthur ineluctably slipping out of his hold and there is nothing he can do but clench his fist around sun-like flowers and hard won trust.
Squeezing so hard, so much, that he is afraid all is left from feathery love is fine fine dust.
(Forræda)
The feast is beautiful, Camelot at its finest and Uther feels lighter than he has in ages. Candles all around the room spread golden light in the Great Hall making women seem beautiful and men brave. The entire night is dark red velvet and laughter, gold and fine wine, power and ephemera.
As he sweeps his eyes across the room, the King feels a familiar annoyance rise in him as his son stops speaking and twists slightly toward his servant in an inviting command the King knows oh too well. His eyes linger a bit on his son before turning toward the lanky boy.
Although most of the castle has gotten used to Merlin by now, his cheeky smile and his sharp tongue, the weird exchanges between the dark-haired servant and his son never fail to ruffle Uther’s feathers. There are things like order and discipline, respect and hierarchy, etiquette. Rules he implemented himself and rules that have been there for longer than anyone can recall. A frail cards castle, the only thing holding this -his kingdom, this fleeting peace - together.
And Merlin... Merlin... pushes the boundaries, questions every limits. Disrupt this order Uther painstakingly built. And somehow, he knows already that Merlin will bring the cards castle tumbling down.
Two words and Uther could breathe again. The order is on tip of his tongue, achingly familiar for having lingered on his lips countless times. But the echoes of an ancient voice that spoke long ago of coins and destiny make him hesitate. A second pass, Uther turns to King Lot. The feast is beautiful.
(Lygewyrhta)
He feels an incredulous laughter bubble in his throat but if anything being king has taught him self-control. He stares at Merlin instead.
The boy is clearly pulling his leg.
For.the.third.time.
He is all wide eyes, flailing arms and babbling nonsense and disconcertedly good at lying to the King. But Uther is no fool. He knows he probably ought to take some kind of sanction because he is the King and no one is allowed to lie to him.
But somehow, the boy brought him back Arthur. Once again. And in the bright light of this fine morning, something gold glitters in his son’s eyes.
Something young and vibrant. Something that looks a lot like mischief and feels a bite like redemption.
Uther sighs inwardly. He knows he’ll regret it later but...
Well, I hope for our sake that you find a cure or we’ll find ourselves with a food shortage on our hands...
The End
N.B: In old English, sceaða means thief, forræda means plotter and lygewyrhta means liar.