Ubi Sunt (Part VII)
Title: Ubi Sunt
Art link: On LJ
Rating: R
Word Count: ~41,000
“Welcome, welcome, ladies and gentlemen to the 50th annual Albion Trials. My name is Nimueh, and I’ll be your lovely announcer for the first day’s events. I’m sure you’re all familiar with the format, but just in case you aren’t, allow me to walk you through it.”
The woman striding back and forth in front of the group spoke with her hands, but she was so beautiful, so ethereal, that Arthur doubted anyone would pay any less attention to her if she held completely still.
“We will begin the day with dressage. By now, you all should have your numbers and time to start. If you don’t, well, shame on you!” Polite laughter rippled through the crowd, although Nimueh hadn’t actually been funny.
“Dressage will obviously be a chance for the judges--myself, young Mordred, and two surprise guests--to see if your lovely horses will be as graceful and controlled today as they will be strong and fearsome tomorrow. As this is the celebrity portion of our little charity gathering, you will all be judged at the highest level of competition. Only the best of the best compete here--and your judges expect a show. Is everybody ready?”
A cheer went up, Merlin leaned against Arthur’s side. He looked ill again. His face was pale, and his palm, where it was pressed against Arthur’s wrist, was clammy. “Merlin?” Arthur said softly, tilting his head to the side so that they wouldn’t be heard over the crowd. “Are you all right?”
Merlin nodded, so close to Arthur that he felt the movement more than saw it. “Fine,” he said shortly. Merlin pulled back, and the tired pull at the corners of his mouth made Arthur frown. “I just feel like,” Merlin lifted a hand and scrubbed his face, “Like I’m forgetting something.”
“What sort of something?” Arthur pressed, letting his hand rest bracingly against the small of Merlin’s back.
“Something important.” When Merlin met Arthur’s gaze, his eyes looked strange and far away. Merlin nodded his head, like he was shaking the thoughts off, and Arthur snorted in what he hoped was a dignified manner.
“Merlin,” he said loftily, “I think your hair just nodded.”
“My hair doesn’t--”
“If there aren’t any more questions,” Nimueh’s voice boomed across the room, loud and grating. Whatever Merlin was going to say vanished under the sound. “I will release you to your teams. Good luck today, everyone.” The lightness of her stance and voice seemed at odds with the way she spoke, and Arthur had to suppress a shiver at her parting words, which she delivered with a bright smile: “Break a leg.”
As the room emptied, Arthur fell into step next to Merlin. He could see Gwen and Will, his “team” for the day, as well as a few of the riders from Camelot who would be competing in the student portion of the event. For the first time in a long time, Arthur’s stomach knotted--not with fear or panic, as he thought it might, but with the familiar anticipation that came before a competition.
“She and Mordred should rent themselves out for parties,” Arthur said under his breath. “Creepy. The pair of them.”
Merlin laughed, “I’m sure they consider themselves intimidating. It must be hard to be Mordred, anyway. He’s young to be what he is.”
Arthur glanced at Merlin and shrugged, “Weren’t we all?”
Merlin rubbed at the small of his back, and Arthur wasn’t sure if it was an unconscious response to the reminder of the future he’d once had or if his back really was sore. Arthur’s money was on the latter. The expression on Merlin’s face was still, at the very least, mildly pained. “Are you sure you’re up for this?” Arthur asked seriously.
“Yes,” Merlin said. “I’d like to watch you win.”
Maybe it was the slope of the hill they were on, or the stones underfoot that made their feet land at strange angles. Maybe it was a small dip in the otherwise smooth grass. Maybe it was just dumb luck. But when Merlin said “win” he flinched.
“Merlin--”
“Don’t,” Merlin said shortly, “I’m fine. Let’s make you a champion.”
~~~
When it was finally time to do show jumping, Arthur was--well, to say he was nervous would probably be something of an understatement. Merlin had been acting strange all week--out of sorts since they’d gotten to the show. For Arthur, who had come to rely on Merlin as something of a cockroach (no matter how bad it got, he seemed to survive) the change the morning of the last day of the competition was--memorable, to say the least.
It seemed to Arthur that Merlin had been getting progressively worse since the morning of the dressage portion. He’d looked worse for the wear, but certainly capable of not collapsing. The morning of the cross country portion of the competition he’d been shaky on his feet, paler than normal, and slow to respond to Arthur’s questions. Arthur had seen him getting sick too, on more than one occasion. It made Will irritable and protective, put Gwen on edge, and made Arthur more than a little bit nervous.
When he got to the barn the morning of the final day of the competition--the morning of show jumping, the big event, the one that had destroyed Merlin’s life and nearly done the same to Arthur’s, Arthur had expected, at the very least, grim enthusiasm from Merlin. What he got, it turned out, was more like something out of a scary story--the kind where they replace the humans with zombies, and everyone dies at the end--even the cute protagonist.
Arthur spent fifteen minutes trying to find Merlin. He walked circles around the barn, something which put him uncomfortably close to Mordred on more than one occasion. The strange sixteen year old had barricaded himself in an empty stall and was muttering at an old book he held clutched close to his chest. Strange, definitely, but everything about Mordred was, and Arthur chose to ignore it--for the most part.
When he did finally find Merlin, it was completely by accident. Fish had poked his head insistently out of his stall, nosing at Arthur each time he passed. When he finally stopped to see what had the horse so riled up, he saw Merlin, lying prone on his back. It barely looked like he was breathing. “Merlin?” Arthur murmured, opening the door and dropping into a crouch.
Merlin’s whole body seemed to twitch in reaction to Arthur’s voice, and he opened glassy eyes, peering intently up at Arthur in the gloom of early morning dust and wind that seemed to permeate the barn. “Arthur?”
“What’s going on with you?” Arthur slipped a hand under Merlin’s body, helping him to lift up into a sitting position. Merlin’s gaze was tired, and instead of propping himself up, he curled pathetically against Arthur’s chest. Arthur wrapped his arms around Merlin, half to hold him up and half to hold him close.
“Just old injuries,” Merlin said stubbornly.
“Merlin, I don’t care what you think. This can’t have anything to do with your fall.”
Merlin shook his head, “Doctor says I’m fine. Has to be--”
“Merlin, you aren’t thinking clearly. What doctor?”
Merlin frowned. “I’m sure I spoke with one.”
They passed Mordred again, and this time, Arthur began to wonder. Mordred was looking at them, at Merlin specifically as Arthur half led, half carried him out of the stall. “Is he feeling quite well?” Mordred asked. His voice was scratchy, and for all his youth, his expression was haggard and haunted like an old man’s.
“I’m forgetting something,” Merlin said, which he’d been saying since Nimueh’s opening speech before dressage. Arthur frowned down at Merlin and then glanced up at Mordred. He remembered the strange flash in Merlin’s eyes the day he’d fallen in the forest--he remembered the way Merlin had acted, as though they were being hunted, as though someone else was there.
And he remembered, like something half out of a dream, a blue sky, and screeching brakes, and a whole new take on flying just before he hit the ground.
Beneath all these reflection, beneath all the memories, he felt something else, too. A strange, golden thrum, and a voice that sounded like Merlin’s hissing words in a foreign tongue.
Mordred. It all came back to Mordred. He didn’t know why, or how, and he was certain that his half remembered, dreamy flashes wouldn’t count for logical evidence, but he knew it had something to do with Mordred.
“Only he can help you win,” Mordred called after them his voice faint and thoughtful. “I’m sure of it. You’ve never been much without him.”
Arthur turned the corner. He did not look back.
~~~
“What the bloody hell was that about?” Arthur asked, trying to get something of a rise out of Merlin as they walked back toward the van. Merlin still seemed shaky on his feet, but he was leaning less and less on Arthur as they put more distance between themselves and Mordred. Arthur spared a thought of concern about the horses, but honestly, it was so ridiculous to think Mordred had something to do with--with whatever was wrong with Merlin that he wasn’t particularly concerned about the horses. And yet.
And yet. That was the problem, wasn’t it? This strange possibility that Mordred was something more than he seemed. Beside him, Merlin was quiet. As they rounded the final corner and stepped in sight of the van, he let go of Arthur completely. “It’s fine,” Merlin said when Arthur reached out to him. “I don’t need to be babysat.”
The half-present chiding in Merlin’s voice calmed Arthur’s nerves a little, but he still caught Merlin’s hand and tugged him to a stop. “Merlin--”
“Arthur you have so much preparation left to do,” Merlin said, his voice as stiff as the hand Arthur was still holding onto. “Let’s save conversations for another day.”
Arthur shook his head. “I owe you an apology, Merlin.”
Merlin looked away, but there was something like a smile on his face. “My behaviour these last few months has been abysmal.”
“You’ve already apologized, Arthur,” Merlin said softly. “You don’t need to do it again.”
“I think I might. Merlin--we--”
Merlin shut his eyes and held up his hand. “We are not in primary school,” he answered. “We don’t need to act like we are. I’m a big boy, Arthur. We’re mates--just mates. I understand.”
Arthur was still holding Merlin’s hand, and he dropped it now to run a nervous hand through his hair. “Merlin--” he started, then stopped. What could he say? What could he possibly say that would encompass everything? Nothing. “Are you and Will...?” he trailed off.
It was obviously the wrong question to ask. Merlin’s face shut down, and his shoulders went stiff. “Will is” Merlins stopped. “For Christ’s sake Arthur, I shouldn’t need to defend this to you. Leave Will alone. I get that you don’t like him--”
“You think I’m insulting Will? Right now? By asking if you’re with him?”
“What else would you be doing?”
Arthur laughed. It was a stupid reaction to have, but the last few months of his life had been unbelievably hard. So now he laughed, perhaps bordering on hysteria, but amused all the same. Merlin just stared at him, his face a cross between confusion and anger.
Somewhere behind them, Gwen was laughing at something Lance said. In the trailer, Morgana was singing along to the soundtrack from RENT. All around them, the sounds of horses and riders carried through the air, and everything smelled like dirt, and leather, and hay.
But Arthur wasn’t aware of any of that. He was only aware of how warm Merlin’s skin was when Arthur grabbed him by the waist and pressed him up against the treet. “Merlin,” he said, biting back a smile. “Do you ever stop talking?”
Merlin was looking at him with a nervous smile, and deer-in-the-headlights bright blue eyes. Arthur didn’t give him a chance to answer, he just kissed him. Properly, this time. With no running away.
When they finally made it back to the trailer, red cheeked and grinning, Gwen clapped delightedly and Will sighed the most put-upon sigh he had ever heard.
“For fuck’s sake,” Will said, tossing his hands in the air. But he was nearly smiling too.
It was the night before show jumping, and there was a warm breeze, and everything smelled like a barn. It was like coming home, even though his father wasn’t there, even though his mother would never be. Arthur let himself relax for half a second. There was so much to do before the morning, but just for now, just for a moment, he held on to Merlin’s hand like they had nothing else to do.
~~~
~~~
Excalibur was a dream. That was the only way Arthur could describe the horse who had all but swept in and changed his life in a matter of days. Arthur had liked Gwaine--he was easy, familiar, and intensely supportive of his half-healed rider, but Excalibur was a completely different experience. It was like riding Arcturus again--like being part of a team. Dressage and cross country had been fun on Excalibur, in a way Arthur had long been sure riding would never be again.
As he entered the ring for the final portion of the competition, Arthur’s nerves stripped off him like ribbons. He breathed out and then they were just gone. Gone. Like they’d never been there at all. It was him and his horse and the sound of the crowd, and somewhere, beneath everything, a blue sky and Merlin’s voice murmuring in that strange language.
Merlin had been looking better since their conversation after they’d left Mordred behind. He was watching Arthur now, and as Arthur and Excalibur moved in front of the judges to make his salute, which Merlin--the nerve of him--insisted on calling tongue-in-cheek, Arthur could just about see him. It was the hair that gave Merlin away, really, dark and puffed up, and settled as close to the fence as he was allowed to get. His eyes, too, were obvious, a bright and clear blue that reminded Arthur of hay like spun gold and warm afternoons, and blue blue skies.
If Merlin was obvious in his familiarity, Mordred was obvious in his strangeness. He had an unknowable quality about him that was more evident here in the ring, with Arthur dropped into a salute in front of him, then it had been in any other encounter. Mordred had always seemed strange, but now he seemed uncanny--something that Arthur could never know. Arthur glanced at him for only a second, but Mordred seemed to enjoy the way Arthur was bowed before him. There wasn’t anything tangible or logical that made Arthur notice it--he had only a brief look--but something about him made the hair on the back of Arthur’s neck stand up. Something about Mordred made Arthur want to pay attention.
Excalibur snorted and tossed his head. Arthur’s nerves were beginning to affect his horse--and he couldn’t allow that. He took a slow, deep breath. “Easy, now,” he half-said. His whole body hummed. This was the first jump of Arthur’s professional career since the accident. This--he couldn’t mess this up.
He had to trust his horse.
So he did.
One, two, three, four he counted in his head, five, six--he rose in his stirrups, seven.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Fly.
Arthur had been riding for too long to close his eyes in a competition, but he couldn’t have told anyone what he saw as he went over the jump. It was a blur of colors and the sound of his horse, and Arthur was painfully aware of every inch of his own skin, every drop of blood that flowed through his veins, and the tiniest shift of his hair against his forehead.
And then he’d cleared the first jump, and the second jump was in front of him. This time, he paid more attention to the world outside himself. He fixed his gaze on the third jump, adjusted his grip on the reins, and relaxed, because this was his moment--no, this was Merlin’s moment too--this was their moment. Nothing was going to ruin it.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Fly.
The turn between the second and the third jump was tricky, but between Arthur and Excalibur, it was as though it was merely a straight line. They were fluid--not the tiniest hiccup in their communication.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Fly.
There was, more than he’d thought there would be, a sense of gravitas and importance as he cleared the third jump. Here he was again, in a competition, on a horse, and he’d just finished the third jump. The last time he’d competed, his third jump had been the last good jump of what he’d thought was his career. It had definitely been the last good jump, the last successful jump, of Arcturus’s life. For a moment, Arthur nearly bulked. He thought, just for a second, of halting, of turning, of running away.
But that wasn’t how he would win, and Arthur was determined to win. It wasn’t just about vanity or pride, although those were layers of his story, too, it was about something unnamable, something unknown, something ancient.
The fourth jump had destroyed Merlin’s career, it had crippled him.
Arthur adjusted his grip on the reins and breathed out slowly. It would not cripple him, too. Nothing would end today, except this fear that they both had.
“For Camelot,” he said, softly, just to Excalibur.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Fly.
Arthur didn’t close his eyes, but for a second he thought he had. As they went over the fourth jump, he didn’t see the fifth jump, or the crowd, or even Merlin. He saw a battlefield, a clear blue sky, and hay like spun gold. He saw himself, and Merlin too, and a sword in a stone. He saw them dying, losing--a sheet of ice cold rain washing them all away, and Mordred controlling it. Mordred laughing. Mordred winning.
And then there was sunlight, and there was Excalibur beneath him, and the fourth jump in front of him, and he blinked--just once, and in that moment that his eyes shut and then opened again, he saw a battle won. He saw a day when none of them died.
I feel like I’m forgetting something Merlin had said. Now Arthur remembered everything.
~~~
The rest of the course would always be something of a blur in Arthur’s memory. He knew only that he had done well, exceptional was the word Nimueh used with pursed lips.
At the victor’s ceremony, especially, Nimueh was standoffish. Merlin stood in front of him as Arthur stood on the stage. It was Nimueh who had to hand him the crown--the event’s version of a trophy--and Nimueh who had to declare in a voice clear and cold that Arthur Pendragon had united all of Albion, in his exceptional riding in dressage, cross country, and show-jumping. All the young riders from Camelot cheered then, their voices louder than any other cheer Arthur had ever received. Even Will joined in the chant they took up: King Arthur they all crowed, King Arthur of Camelot!. There were photos and flashes, reporters, and Merlin too, Merlin looking healthy and alive and well, still rubbing his back, still swinging his leg, but looking the best that Arthur had ever seen him.
Hay like spun gold. Blue. A crown. A victory.
What Arthur would remember, tangibly, palpably, was that at the ceremony, he saw only Nimueh.
Mordred wasn’t there, and it was strange--
--but no one else, aside from Merlin, seemed to remember him.
Epilogue
Art link: On LJ
Rating: R
Word Count: ~41,000
“Welcome, welcome, ladies and gentlemen to the 50th annual Albion Trials. My name is Nimueh, and I’ll be your lovely announcer for the first day’s events. I’m sure you’re all familiar with the format, but just in case you aren’t, allow me to walk you through it.”
The woman striding back and forth in front of the group spoke with her hands, but she was so beautiful, so ethereal, that Arthur doubted anyone would pay any less attention to her if she held completely still.
“We will begin the day with dressage. By now, you all should have your numbers and time to start. If you don’t, well, shame on you!” Polite laughter rippled through the crowd, although Nimueh hadn’t actually been funny.
“Dressage will obviously be a chance for the judges--myself, young Mordred, and two surprise guests--to see if your lovely horses will be as graceful and controlled today as they will be strong and fearsome tomorrow. As this is the celebrity portion of our little charity gathering, you will all be judged at the highest level of competition. Only the best of the best compete here--and your judges expect a show. Is everybody ready?”
A cheer went up, Merlin leaned against Arthur’s side. He looked ill again. His face was pale, and his palm, where it was pressed against Arthur’s wrist, was clammy. “Merlin?” Arthur said softly, tilting his head to the side so that they wouldn’t be heard over the crowd. “Are you all right?”
Merlin nodded, so close to Arthur that he felt the movement more than saw it. “Fine,” he said shortly. Merlin pulled back, and the tired pull at the corners of his mouth made Arthur frown. “I just feel like,” Merlin lifted a hand and scrubbed his face, “Like I’m forgetting something.”
“What sort of something?” Arthur pressed, letting his hand rest bracingly against the small of Merlin’s back.
“Something important.” When Merlin met Arthur’s gaze, his eyes looked strange and far away. Merlin nodded his head, like he was shaking the thoughts off, and Arthur snorted in what he hoped was a dignified manner.
“Merlin,” he said loftily, “I think your hair just nodded.”
“My hair doesn’t--”
“If there aren’t any more questions,” Nimueh’s voice boomed across the room, loud and grating. Whatever Merlin was going to say vanished under the sound. “I will release you to your teams. Good luck today, everyone.” The lightness of her stance and voice seemed at odds with the way she spoke, and Arthur had to suppress a shiver at her parting words, which she delivered with a bright smile: “Break a leg.”
As the room emptied, Arthur fell into step next to Merlin. He could see Gwen and Will, his “team” for the day, as well as a few of the riders from Camelot who would be competing in the student portion of the event. For the first time in a long time, Arthur’s stomach knotted--not with fear or panic, as he thought it might, but with the familiar anticipation that came before a competition.
“She and Mordred should rent themselves out for parties,” Arthur said under his breath. “Creepy. The pair of them.”
Merlin laughed, “I’m sure they consider themselves intimidating. It must be hard to be Mordred, anyway. He’s young to be what he is.”
Arthur glanced at Merlin and shrugged, “Weren’t we all?”
Merlin rubbed at the small of his back, and Arthur wasn’t sure if it was an unconscious response to the reminder of the future he’d once had or if his back really was sore. Arthur’s money was on the latter. The expression on Merlin’s face was still, at the very least, mildly pained. “Are you sure you’re up for this?” Arthur asked seriously.
“Yes,” Merlin said. “I’d like to watch you win.”
Maybe it was the slope of the hill they were on, or the stones underfoot that made their feet land at strange angles. Maybe it was a small dip in the otherwise smooth grass. Maybe it was just dumb luck. But when Merlin said “win” he flinched.
“Merlin--”
“Don’t,” Merlin said shortly, “I’m fine. Let’s make you a champion.”
~~~
When it was finally time to do show jumping, Arthur was--well, to say he was nervous would probably be something of an understatement. Merlin had been acting strange all week--out of sorts since they’d gotten to the show. For Arthur, who had come to rely on Merlin as something of a cockroach (no matter how bad it got, he seemed to survive) the change the morning of the last day of the competition was--memorable, to say the least.
It seemed to Arthur that Merlin had been getting progressively worse since the morning of the dressage portion. He’d looked worse for the wear, but certainly capable of not collapsing. The morning of the cross country portion of the competition he’d been shaky on his feet, paler than normal, and slow to respond to Arthur’s questions. Arthur had seen him getting sick too, on more than one occasion. It made Will irritable and protective, put Gwen on edge, and made Arthur more than a little bit nervous.
When he got to the barn the morning of the final day of the competition--the morning of show jumping, the big event, the one that had destroyed Merlin’s life and nearly done the same to Arthur’s, Arthur had expected, at the very least, grim enthusiasm from Merlin. What he got, it turned out, was more like something out of a scary story--the kind where they replace the humans with zombies, and everyone dies at the end--even the cute protagonist.
Arthur spent fifteen minutes trying to find Merlin. He walked circles around the barn, something which put him uncomfortably close to Mordred on more than one occasion. The strange sixteen year old had barricaded himself in an empty stall and was muttering at an old book he held clutched close to his chest. Strange, definitely, but everything about Mordred was, and Arthur chose to ignore it--for the most part.
When he did finally find Merlin, it was completely by accident. Fish had poked his head insistently out of his stall, nosing at Arthur each time he passed. When he finally stopped to see what had the horse so riled up, he saw Merlin, lying prone on his back. It barely looked like he was breathing. “Merlin?” Arthur murmured, opening the door and dropping into a crouch.
Merlin’s whole body seemed to twitch in reaction to Arthur’s voice, and he opened glassy eyes, peering intently up at Arthur in the gloom of early morning dust and wind that seemed to permeate the barn. “Arthur?”
“What’s going on with you?” Arthur slipped a hand under Merlin’s body, helping him to lift up into a sitting position. Merlin’s gaze was tired, and instead of propping himself up, he curled pathetically against Arthur’s chest. Arthur wrapped his arms around Merlin, half to hold him up and half to hold him close.
“Just old injuries,” Merlin said stubbornly.
“Merlin, I don’t care what you think. This can’t have anything to do with your fall.”
Merlin shook his head, “Doctor says I’m fine. Has to be--”
“Merlin, you aren’t thinking clearly. What doctor?”
Merlin frowned. “I’m sure I spoke with one.”
They passed Mordred again, and this time, Arthur began to wonder. Mordred was looking at them, at Merlin specifically as Arthur half led, half carried him out of the stall. “Is he feeling quite well?” Mordred asked. His voice was scratchy, and for all his youth, his expression was haggard and haunted like an old man’s.
“I’m forgetting something,” Merlin said, which he’d been saying since Nimueh’s opening speech before dressage. Arthur frowned down at Merlin and then glanced up at Mordred. He remembered the strange flash in Merlin’s eyes the day he’d fallen in the forest--he remembered the way Merlin had acted, as though they were being hunted, as though someone else was there.
And he remembered, like something half out of a dream, a blue sky, and screeching brakes, and a whole new take on flying just before he hit the ground.
Beneath all these reflection, beneath all the memories, he felt something else, too. A strange, golden thrum, and a voice that sounded like Merlin’s hissing words in a foreign tongue.
Mordred. It all came back to Mordred. He didn’t know why, or how, and he was certain that his half remembered, dreamy flashes wouldn’t count for logical evidence, but he knew it had something to do with Mordred.
“Only he can help you win,” Mordred called after them his voice faint and thoughtful. “I’m sure of it. You’ve never been much without him.”
Arthur turned the corner. He did not look back.
~~~
“What the bloody hell was that about?” Arthur asked, trying to get something of a rise out of Merlin as they walked back toward the van. Merlin still seemed shaky on his feet, but he was leaning less and less on Arthur as they put more distance between themselves and Mordred. Arthur spared a thought of concern about the horses, but honestly, it was so ridiculous to think Mordred had something to do with--with whatever was wrong with Merlin that he wasn’t particularly concerned about the horses. And yet.
And yet. That was the problem, wasn’t it? This strange possibility that Mordred was something more than he seemed. Beside him, Merlin was quiet. As they rounded the final corner and stepped in sight of the van, he let go of Arthur completely. “It’s fine,” Merlin said when Arthur reached out to him. “I don’t need to be babysat.”
The half-present chiding in Merlin’s voice calmed Arthur’s nerves a little, but he still caught Merlin’s hand and tugged him to a stop. “Merlin--”
“Arthur you have so much preparation left to do,” Merlin said, his voice as stiff as the hand Arthur was still holding onto. “Let’s save conversations for another day.”
Arthur shook his head. “I owe you an apology, Merlin.”
Merlin looked away, but there was something like a smile on his face. “My behaviour these last few months has been abysmal.”
“You’ve already apologized, Arthur,” Merlin said softly. “You don’t need to do it again.”
“I think I might. Merlin--we--”
Merlin shut his eyes and held up his hand. “We are not in primary school,” he answered. “We don’t need to act like we are. I’m a big boy, Arthur. We’re mates--just mates. I understand.”
Arthur was still holding Merlin’s hand, and he dropped it now to run a nervous hand through his hair. “Merlin--” he started, then stopped. What could he say? What could he possibly say that would encompass everything? Nothing. “Are you and Will...?” he trailed off.
It was obviously the wrong question to ask. Merlin’s face shut down, and his shoulders went stiff. “Will is” Merlins stopped. “For Christ’s sake Arthur, I shouldn’t need to defend this to you. Leave Will alone. I get that you don’t like him--”
“You think I’m insulting Will? Right now? By asking if you’re with him?”
“What else would you be doing?”
Arthur laughed. It was a stupid reaction to have, but the last few months of his life had been unbelievably hard. So now he laughed, perhaps bordering on hysteria, but amused all the same. Merlin just stared at him, his face a cross between confusion and anger.
Somewhere behind them, Gwen was laughing at something Lance said. In the trailer, Morgana was singing along to the soundtrack from RENT. All around them, the sounds of horses and riders carried through the air, and everything smelled like dirt, and leather, and hay.
But Arthur wasn’t aware of any of that. He was only aware of how warm Merlin’s skin was when Arthur grabbed him by the waist and pressed him up against the treet. “Merlin,” he said, biting back a smile. “Do you ever stop talking?”
Merlin was looking at him with a nervous smile, and deer-in-the-headlights bright blue eyes. Arthur didn’t give him a chance to answer, he just kissed him. Properly, this time. With no running away.
When they finally made it back to the trailer, red cheeked and grinning, Gwen clapped delightedly and Will sighed the most put-upon sigh he had ever heard.
“For fuck’s sake,” Will said, tossing his hands in the air. But he was nearly smiling too.
It was the night before show jumping, and there was a warm breeze, and everything smelled like a barn. It was like coming home, even though his father wasn’t there, even though his mother would never be. Arthur let himself relax for half a second. There was so much to do before the morning, but just for now, just for a moment, he held on to Merlin’s hand like they had nothing else to do.
~~~
~~~
Excalibur was a dream. That was the only way Arthur could describe the horse who had all but swept in and changed his life in a matter of days. Arthur had liked Gwaine--he was easy, familiar, and intensely supportive of his half-healed rider, but Excalibur was a completely different experience. It was like riding Arcturus again--like being part of a team. Dressage and cross country had been fun on Excalibur, in a way Arthur had long been sure riding would never be again.
As he entered the ring for the final portion of the competition, Arthur’s nerves stripped off him like ribbons. He breathed out and then they were just gone. Gone. Like they’d never been there at all. It was him and his horse and the sound of the crowd, and somewhere, beneath everything, a blue sky and Merlin’s voice murmuring in that strange language.
Merlin had been looking better since their conversation after they’d left Mordred behind. He was watching Arthur now, and as Arthur and Excalibur moved in front of the judges to make his salute, which Merlin--the nerve of him--insisted on calling tongue-in-cheek, Arthur could just about see him. It was the hair that gave Merlin away, really, dark and puffed up, and settled as close to the fence as he was allowed to get. His eyes, too, were obvious, a bright and clear blue that reminded Arthur of hay like spun gold and warm afternoons, and blue blue skies.
If Merlin was obvious in his familiarity, Mordred was obvious in his strangeness. He had an unknowable quality about him that was more evident here in the ring, with Arthur dropped into a salute in front of him, then it had been in any other encounter. Mordred had always seemed strange, but now he seemed uncanny--something that Arthur could never know. Arthur glanced at him for only a second, but Mordred seemed to enjoy the way Arthur was bowed before him. There wasn’t anything tangible or logical that made Arthur notice it--he had only a brief look--but something about him made the hair on the back of Arthur’s neck stand up. Something about Mordred made Arthur want to pay attention.
Excalibur snorted and tossed his head. Arthur’s nerves were beginning to affect his horse--and he couldn’t allow that. He took a slow, deep breath. “Easy, now,” he half-said. His whole body hummed. This was the first jump of Arthur’s professional career since the accident. This--he couldn’t mess this up.
He had to trust his horse.
So he did.
One, two, three, four he counted in his head, five, six--he rose in his stirrups, seven.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Fly.
Arthur had been riding for too long to close his eyes in a competition, but he couldn’t have told anyone what he saw as he went over the jump. It was a blur of colors and the sound of his horse, and Arthur was painfully aware of every inch of his own skin, every drop of blood that flowed through his veins, and the tiniest shift of his hair against his forehead.
And then he’d cleared the first jump, and the second jump was in front of him. This time, he paid more attention to the world outside himself. He fixed his gaze on the third jump, adjusted his grip on the reins, and relaxed, because this was his moment--no, this was Merlin’s moment too--this was their moment. Nothing was going to ruin it.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Fly.
The turn between the second and the third jump was tricky, but between Arthur and Excalibur, it was as though it was merely a straight line. They were fluid--not the tiniest hiccup in their communication.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Fly.
There was, more than he’d thought there would be, a sense of gravitas and importance as he cleared the third jump. Here he was again, in a competition, on a horse, and he’d just finished the third jump. The last time he’d competed, his third jump had been the last good jump of what he’d thought was his career. It had definitely been the last good jump, the last successful jump, of Arcturus’s life. For a moment, Arthur nearly bulked. He thought, just for a second, of halting, of turning, of running away.
But that wasn’t how he would win, and Arthur was determined to win. It wasn’t just about vanity or pride, although those were layers of his story, too, it was about something unnamable, something unknown, something ancient.
The fourth jump had destroyed Merlin’s career, it had crippled him.
Arthur adjusted his grip on the reins and breathed out slowly. It would not cripple him, too. Nothing would end today, except this fear that they both had.
“For Camelot,” he said, softly, just to Excalibur.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Fly.
Arthur didn’t close his eyes, but for a second he thought he had. As they went over the fourth jump, he didn’t see the fifth jump, or the crowd, or even Merlin. He saw a battlefield, a clear blue sky, and hay like spun gold. He saw himself, and Merlin too, and a sword in a stone. He saw them dying, losing--a sheet of ice cold rain washing them all away, and Mordred controlling it. Mordred laughing. Mordred winning.
And then there was sunlight, and there was Excalibur beneath him, and the fourth jump in front of him, and he blinked--just once, and in that moment that his eyes shut and then opened again, he saw a battle won. He saw a day when none of them died.
I feel like I’m forgetting something Merlin had said. Now Arthur remembered everything.
~~~
The rest of the course would always be something of a blur in Arthur’s memory. He knew only that he had done well, exceptional was the word Nimueh used with pursed lips.
At the victor’s ceremony, especially, Nimueh was standoffish. Merlin stood in front of him as Arthur stood on the stage. It was Nimueh who had to hand him the crown--the event’s version of a trophy--and Nimueh who had to declare in a voice clear and cold that Arthur Pendragon had united all of Albion, in his exceptional riding in dressage, cross country, and show-jumping. All the young riders from Camelot cheered then, their voices louder than any other cheer Arthur had ever received. Even Will joined in the chant they took up: King Arthur they all crowed, King Arthur of Camelot!. There were photos and flashes, reporters, and Merlin too, Merlin looking healthy and alive and well, still rubbing his back, still swinging his leg, but looking the best that Arthur had ever seen him.
Hay like spun gold. Blue. A crown. A victory.
What Arthur would remember, tangibly, palpably, was that at the ceremony, he saw only Nimueh.
Mordred wasn’t there, and it was strange--
--but no one else, aside from Merlin, seemed to remember him.
Epilogue