Ubi Sunt (Part III)
Title: Ubi Sunt
Art link: On LJ
Rating: R
Word Count: ~41,000
Morgana gave him a week of quiet before she finally turned on him.
“No,” he said when she opened her mouth. Her intentions were written all over her face, clear and bright and full of importance. She was, typically, even dressed for the occasion. Her ‘don’t fuck with me’ heels made him have to tilt his head up, and as he was sitting on the couch the angle was a bit off. These were the boots--she probably considered them more appropriate for a barn. Arthur considered them the bane of his existence.
“Arthur,” she said patiently, “You’re being ridiculous.”
“How exactly am I being ridiculous?”
“You’re a rider! You used to tell people that before you told them your name.”
“I remember. Father was quick to change that habit.”
Morgana sobered and dropped down on the couch next to him. “Have you spoken with him, then?”
“This week? Yes.”
Morgana looked away, her gaze straying toward the window of their living room. The whole room was huge, and sort of bare, but Arthur loved the window-or more importantly, he loved the expansive view. “I’ll be the first to say that I disagree with Uther’s practices,” Mogana said carefully.
“Disagree?” Arthur snorted, “You lead a protest group.”
“His team is-no, look, Arthur that’s really beside the point. Uther is a great coach. He might be able to help you.”
“I don’t want Uther to help me, Morgana. I don’t want to ride.”
“But why not?”
“Because I killed my horse!”
Next to him, Morgana went completely still. Arthur set his jaw and pushed up off the couch. Now that it was out in the open, there was no reason to pretend that everyone hadn’t been thinking about it. He’d said it. “You know it’s true, Morgana,” Arthur added, “The accident. Excalibur doesn’t-didn’t-make mistakes like that. He was too good. It had to be something I did,” he didn’t look away from the wall while he spoke, just squared his shoulders.
“You can’t blame yourself-”
“Everyone does,” Arthur cut in. “Absolutely everyone.”
“The accident was strange, you couldn’t possibly have prepared for-”
“It was my job to be prepared. It doesn’t matter what happened, what matters is what didn’t happen. I failed, Morgana. I failed to react. I killed my horse and I’m not going to ride again, I’m not going to be responsible for that. Please,” his voice dropped, “Please respect my wishes.”
“No,” Morgana said, standing up. She walked toward the door. “I won’t, because you’re wrong, Arthur. You’re being a git, and I don’t have time to listen to this. The address for Camelot is on the fridge.”
She slammed the door on her way out, and Arthur dropped back down onto the couch. The idea of getting back on a horse wasn’t just-not getting back on a horse wasn’t about being stubborn. It wasn’t about pride, or about being lazy. The thought of it made Arthur’s palms sweat, it made his skin clammy, and made him want to get under the covers and never get back out again.
He didn’t remember the accident. Not a second of it. All he remembered was the endless blue of the sky, the way his body felt as it twisted through the air, and then there was silence. He hadn’t even heard Arcturus’s breathing stop (of course, it hadn’t stopped. Not then, not in the ring. It happened in some barn, while Arcturus was surrounded by strangers, in pain, and Arthur was high on drugs and asleep in a hospital room. Arcturus's breathing hadn’t stopped that day, but Arthur thought--irrationally, perhaps--that he should have known).
What Morgana didn’t understand, or maybe what she couldn’t understand, was that Arcturus had been a part of Arthur. The concept sounded strange, even in the privacy of his mind, but Arcturus had never been just a horse, never just the mechanism through which he competed. Arcturus had been an extension of Arthur’s self, as real and vital to him as his legs or his arms. He missed the horse so badly that it ached.
~~~
“Arthur, get the phone!”
Morgana’s voice rang out through the flat, and Arthur blinked awake. He was curled up on the couch, still, where Morgana had left him. The phone registered then, blaring and shrill, and he stumbled to his feet, grabbed the phone. “This is Arthur,” he said, as he’d been trained to do since he was young enough (and old enough) to be trusted with answering the phone.
“Arthur! Hi! It’s Vivian. How are you?”
He thought about hanging up, but that would have been rude. “Viv,” he answered, “Hey, I’m all right-” He wanted to ask how she’d gotten the number, it was on the tip of his tongue, “--How have you been?”
“Excellent,” she laughed in his ear, “I haven’t heard from you in ages, I thought I’d call. Sorry it’s so loud, I’m on the street and it’s quite busy.”
“Is someone selling something and you don’t want to talk to them?”
“Yes! These bloody-I don’t even know what it is, something about adoption? Or maybe mobile plans, or missile plans, who knows. They won’t let me alone, so I’ll look busy and catch up with an old friend.”
“Sophia’s not with you, then.”
“What? No. She’s-” Vivian hesitated, he could hear the hiccup of her breath in the phone, “She’s over in America, right now. Buying a horse.”
“America? Why’s she there?”
“Something about a bloodline, you know, she’s picky about those things. Never has got a horse quite good enough to beat you though, you and your Great Bear. I think she only dated you for your horse.”
Arthur froze, and he waited for the stumbled apology, the I forgot it was so sensitive. He waited for Vivian to panic and take her words back, or hang the phone up. “Anyway,” she said instead, “I’ve got this new girlfriend, I think you’d really like her. She’s a good rider, although she’s never had the money to show before. I think she’s trying for a sponsor, and I’m hoping to convince your father to take her on. Come out with us, sometime, would you? I haven’t seen your face in the newspaper in such a long time, and it seems to me to be a crime to deny the people your lovely visage.”
“I don’t know, Viv.”
“Morgana says you haven’t left your apartment much. You’re hurting, and I understand. You lost your horse, Arthur, but that doesn’t mean you have to lose riding, too.”
“Why does everyone want to have this conversation with me?” he recognized the petulance in his voice, and winced. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound so much like a child.”
“Don’t fuss, Arthur. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but you’re hardly going to scare me off. Yes, fine, you don’t want to talk about it. But, Arthur, have you been to the grave site? It’s really beautiful. Right on your favorite spot in that one trail out in the country. By the lake, you know the one. Did you pick it?”
“No,” Arthur said around the lump in his throat, “My father did. I haven’t been.”
“Come out with us sometime,” Vivian insisted in his ear, “And if you don’t want to, that’s fine too, but then come with me to visit Arcturus. You should see it, Arthur.”
“I don’t think I can see it,” Arthur said, sitting down with his back pressed against the wall. “I know what I sound like. I know it’s pathetic-but I just-I can’t-”
“I know, Arthur,” Vivian said. “Look, think on it. You’re seeing me though. Freya-that’s her name-she’s wonderful, and I want you to meet her. You really will like her.”
“It’s good to talk to you, Vivian.”
“You too, Arthur. I’ll bow out. But hey, you need to get on a horse. You know that old adage about getting back on? It’s true. You’re not going to feel better until you get on a horse.”
“Ok,” he said.
“You’ll do it?”
“I don’t know. Baby steps, maybe.”
“Well, there’s a barn that Freya knows-”
“No, don’t worry, Morgana found me a place. Give Sophia my-uh-good wishes.”
“Of course, darling,” Vivian laughed. “I’ll talk to you later. Be good! By the way, keep your heels down and stick your tits out.”
Arthur set down the phone. He couldn’t help but smile.
~~~
One of those things about barns everywhere that always rang the same in Arthur’s ears was the sound his tires made when they rolled up to the building. The universal sound of crunching gravel that always made him want to hurry to get out of the car, to go and ride, to do something. He heard that noise when he pulled up to Camelot, this time without Morgana (and in his own car), but it just made him nervous. He wanted to turn around and go back to London. He’d had the whole drive over to talk himself out of going through with this.
But he could see Merlin, and the off-beat but steady swing of his walk as he came out of the barn. He was silhouetted against the blue of the stable, and Arthur couldn’t really see his face, but he knew it was Merlin all the same. The gait was a dead giveaway, but if not that then the slightly crooked line of his shoulders would do the trick. If nothing else worked, the fluff of hair on top of his head that made it look like he’d just gotten out of bed probably would have convinced Arthur of who it was.
He ran his hand up his side, over the scar on his torso, before he pushed the door open. He was wearing trainers, but his boots were in a pile in the back of the car, right next to his helmet. He left both of those where they were. Arthur didn’t even know if he wanted to ride yet, let alone what he was doing at this barn.
“Hey,” Merlin said, stopping several feet from Arthur. It gave the impression that he was hiding, ready to run back into the barn at the slightest provocation.
“Hi,” Arthur agreed, closing the distance between them. He held out his hand for Merlin to shake. “I want to apologize for my behavior last week, it was inappropriate. I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me like this.”
Merlin shrugged, “Therapeutic riding center,” he said, “Kind of my job.”
“Right,” Arthur shifted, “You will of course be compensated for-”
“Right,” Merlin echoed, cutting Arthur off. “Look, I know you’re nervous about this. Or uncomfortable. I was the same, and it’s fine to feel like that. That’s what they don’t tell you. You groomed Gwaine last week, yeah? Let’s start there.”
It was a lesson plan and an offer disguised as an order, but Arthur went along with it. The barn looked the same as it had the week before. Still clean and tidy, with that over-everything fine grit of barn dust that made people who didn’t know horses wrinkle their noses. He breathed it in and closed his eyes, letting the sound of Merlin in front of him guide him to wherever they were going.
Where they were going was a tack room, and it was huge. Everything was organized. Arthur approved-he himself had driven Morgana, his father, and any number of writing instructors to the brink of madness with his careful organization of the tack rooms on the Pendragon estate. Arthur grabbed the grooming bucket that had ‘Gwaine’ scrawled across it in loopy, childish letters. He raised an eyebrow at Merlin.
“We have the kids design new buckets every year during summer camp,” Merlin said. “It’s part of how we get them comfortable with ‘their’ horses. We assign each kid a horse for the whole two weeks; it helps them to feel like they’re really part of the whole thing.”
Arthur nodded his head blankly, looking inside the grooming bucket. On the back of each brush was an index card. The same loopy handwriting offered grooming instructions-how to use the curry comb, the hard and soft brushes, the hoof pick. Everything was carefully ordered in a sequential number. Arthur couldn’t help the tight lipped smile. He had learned all of this in much the same way.
“I already groomed Fish,” Merlin said, “But he won’t mind a little extra attention.”
He grabbed a bucket that wasn’t decorated at all, just plain and black, covered in scratches and dents that told of travel. Arthur let Merlin out first so that he could lead the way. He used the opportunity to sweep his eyes over the tack room. In the corner, well out of the way of grabbing childish hands and accidental spills sat a set of tack-three saddles, two bridles, and everything polished to perfection. Arthur knew what that kind of dedication was. In a barn full of dusty lesson saddles, Merlin’s old show gear was painfully obvious. What was strangest to Arthur was the pristine condition the tack was in. Merlin clearly wasn’t showing-if Merlin Emrys had so much as walked past a horse show, Arthur would know. Still, it looked cared for and loved, even though it had been nearly two years since Merlin had hit the ground and his career had come to a standstill.
“Are you coming?” Merlin called. Embarrassed to have been caught staring again, Arthur let himself quickly out of the tack room and shut the door behind him.
~~~
“So you haven’t been around horses at all?” Merlin was asking as they walked on an old trail.
Arthur looked up, he’d been lost in thought, comforted by the warmth of Gwaine at his shoulder, and the huff of the horse’s warm breath against wrist. “Not since the accident,” Arthur said softly, “Morgana tricked me into it last time,” he was quiet. “My friend pointed it out to me yesterday, but I haven’t even been to Bear’s grave.”
“Bear?”
“Arcturus. The show name is a mouthful, and it’s the name of the brightest star in a constellation near Ursa Major, which means the great bear. It’s stupid,” Arthur said softly, “The star is in a different constellation, but I didn’t want my horse’s nickname to be Cow,” he paused, “Morgana used to call him Moocow, she was horrid.”
Merlin laughed and rubbed his hand over The Fisher King’s neck. “Tell me about it. I named my horse ‘The Fisher King’ and now we all call him Fish. Poor guy.”
Arthur grinned, “I think Bear came about because I had such a hard time saying ‘Arcturus’ without laughing. The name wasn’t my idea at all, it was Morgana’s. Something about King Arthur and latin--I don’t know, it didn’t make sense to me to name my horse after that, but it stuck. Bear suits him, though--suited him, I mean.”
Merlin didn’t say anything about Arthur’s slip; he just reached over and squeezed his shoulder. His smile was warm and a little tired around the edges. “Gwaine’s no purebread champion, that’s for sure, and he’ll eat all the hay and grain in the barn until he gets himself sick, but he’s a steady mount-a good horse, and he loves people and having fun.”
Arthur glanced at the palomino, who nipped mischievously at the sleeve of his jacket. “He seems like a trouble maker.”
“He means well,” Merlin said.
“Do you ride him, much?” Arthur asked curiously, “Or any of the other horses?”
Merlin nodded, “I do. It took me a little while to get used to the idea, but I can’t take Fish out for a lot of the lesson groups or trail rides. He’s fragile, still. We both are. We have to be careful, don’t we boy?” he clucked affectionately at his horse, “But I’m more reckless with me than with him. I like Gwaine for the kids because he’s so good. I take out anyone who’s free, really. If Gwen’s not riding, I take out her mare.”
“The dappled grey she was riding when we passed the ring?”
“Yeah. Her name’s Kingdom’s Smithy, but we call her Smith.”
“Smithy?”
“Like a black smith. We have a bit of a middle ages theme around here, I guess.”
“The stable is called Camelot.”
“And look at us, Arthur and Merlin.”
They both laughed, and Arthur ran his fingers over Gwaine’s back. “You know, I don’t even know what I’d do if I started showing again. I haven’t got a horse,” he was quiet. “I don’t know if I want another horse.”
“No one expects you to start showing tomorrow, Arthur, and honestly, no one should blame you if you never show again, but you should ride.”
“That’s what everyone keeps telling me,” Arthur said softly. “I’m just not so sure I agree.”
“Why not?”
“Because I killed my horse.”
Merlin was quiet next to him. “Let’s stop over here and sit down,” Merlin said after a while. They’d reached a clearing, and a little creek moved through. There was a spot to secure the horses, and Arthur followed Merlin’s lead and secured Gwaine next to Fish. “I never told anyone about the accident,” Merlin started once they’d settled down, “It wasn’t a story I wanted to tell. There were loads of people who wanted to hear it, but I kind of felt like it was mine, you know? My fault. No one else seemed to blame me, and I didn’t want to tell them my perspective, because I thought they’d call me guilty. By the time I was ready to tell it, people didn’t want to listen anymore.”
“You didn’t tell Gwen?”
“No,” Merlin said. “My accident, was--well, you read the papers. It was a freak thing-the kind of thing that doesn’t happen to people. . .”
~~~
The day was bright and crisp and clear. Merlin woke up with his legs shaking. The day before had been so perfect it was almost as thought it was out of a dream. Still, even though the morning was absolutely still and quiet, he could feel the buzz of excitement that permeated the air. Everyone was alive, everyone was beautiful--Merlin waxed poetic about it in his head as he flipped through the news reports on his phone. His name was in nearly all of them, a description of a boy and his horse, taking the showing world by storm--so communicative that it almost seemed like they were actually talking to each other. Everyone had been so impressed by yesterday’s performance. Merlin had never been so proud of his horse before, and he knew that show jumping today would be just as amazing.
After he’d brushed his teeth and run wet hands through his hair to quiet the excited puffs that the pillow had created, he walked over to the closet. The door was open, displaying to anyone who walked in the room the careful elegance of Merlin’s show clothes. They had been pressed and repressed, every wrinkle scared away first by Merlin, and then Hunith (“You call that pressed, young man?” she’d exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air at the hopelessness of her boy), and now they looked perfect. On the floor below them, his boots were practically glowing from the careful polishing the night before. He’d wanted to sleep at the barn, but his trainer had warned against it with a firm hand on Merlin’s shoulder and the advice that he’d do better to get a good nights sleep. (Merlin had barely slept a second of the night before).
It felt like it took forever, but finally his clothing, boots, and helmet had been carefully packed away for transport to the barn. When he stepped outside the door, the sound of the latch clicking shut behind him echoed in the silent hallway. The dawn had barely cracked the sky, and anyone who wasn’t competing was still sound asleep behind the faceless wooden doors. Merlin didn’t see any of his competition, either, but he couldn’t be certain they hadn’t already left.
Outside the hotel, a cab was waiting for him. “Morning to ya,” the cabbie said, smiling as Merlin slid in. “What’s your number in the show today? We want to know which of our riders is gonna win this thing.” Merlin laughed and told him, then settled back for the ride. It was a blur of shapes and trees and houses and buildings, but Merlin didn’t see a single thing. He only saw what was behind his eyelids, the image of Fish and him, taking each jump with precision and style. Taking the trophy. Showing the world how much they could do.
They pulled up in front of the entrance, the tiles crunching on the gravel. The barn wasn’t quiet--it was loud and alive. The sun was just barely painting the roof in shades of light, and already Merlin could hear calls and hollers, the sounds of humans and horses. He thanked the cabbie and paid his fare, and got wished good luck.
He flashed his badge at the security guard at the door and then he was in front of Fish’s stall. “Hey,” he said to his horse. “Hi,” he added, leaning his head against Fish’s dark muzzle. It was still quiet by this stall, and there were no camera flashes, or anything to distract Merlin from his horse. They were the youngest horse and rider there, and the pair of them caught more than their fair share of attention from press and competition alike. Merlin relished this moment of just the two of them. He kissed Fish’s dark muzzle, “Today is our day,” he whispered. “Good morning.”
The hours crept by too slowly and too quickly. Merlin was caught in between moments of preparation--polishing his boots again and fixing, and then refixing, Fish’s mane--and moments of complete and utter stillness while he waited for his chance to warm up. Hunith brought him a coffee and a kiss. She ruffled his hair, and Merlin spent longer than he needed to making it lay flat again. Will called, sorry that he couldn’t be there, but he was competing himself--off in America, being ridiculous, and Merlin couldn’t blame him. They talked for a while despite the time difference, eating away at time and the nerves that they both struggled with.
Finally, finally they were presentable. They were ready. His boots were clean. There was no hay in Merlin’s hair. There was the sound of a roar, as though he would be swallowed (and deafened) by the first burst of sound from the crowd, but the second Fish’s foot touched dirt, everything went silent.
The noise of the crowd disappeared. Merlin was transported to a world where there was only himself and his horse. Just the two of them, breathing in unison, existing as one thing. Fish was warm and solid beneath Merlin, prancing and eager and so well behaved. Merlin allowed himself the smallest smile as they approached the first jump.
It was easy, as Merlin knew it would be, and he approached the jump without nerves. Fish excelled at ramped oxers, although they were nothing particularly challenging, and really, Fish excelled at everything. It was a good first jump on a course like this, difficult enough to keep them focused, but the jump itself--with the back pole set higher than the front pole--would not be particularly hard for the pair. In fact, it wasn’t hard at all. It was beautiful. Merlin could feel Fish take it, and as he rose in his seat, he felt (not for the first time, never for the first time) as though they were flying.
The second jump, a roll top, was harder. Again, Fish’s jump was perfect. Merlin’s eyes never strayed from the jump ahead, but he could imagine what they looked like, soaring over the solid expanse of wood. He knew without wondering that they looked amazing together, all dark hair between them, but this jump felt--it felt like winning. He didn’t have to wonder about the time, Merlin could feel the seconds, like he felt so much about riding, sliding by without concern. They were making excellent time, he didn’t need to know the numbers to know they were the best so far. He was doing well. They were both doing well.
Merlin had been nervous about the third jump going into the competition. When they had first started out, Fish and Merlin had both had a strange and unfounded fear for Liverpools. Fish, because the idea of the water below him made him antsy, and Merlin because it had been before he’d learned to trust his horse going over an oxer. When combined--the pool below the oxer--they had struggled for months to overcome their slightly irrational problem. Today though, today Merlin let the last ounces of fear he held so close to his chest go. He trusted his horse. “We’ve got this,” he whispered, his lips not even moving. Fish’s ears twitched back at him, and Merlin pressed his fingers against Fish’s neck. “I trust you,” he said.
He felt it the moment Fish’s feet took off from the ground, and Merlin locked his eyes straight ahead.
They landed.
And Merlin heard the crowd roar.
For months after that third jump, critics and analysts, press and friends and family would wonder what went wrong. Those first three jumps had been the best jumps of Merlin and Fish’s career. They had been elegant--flawless--the kind of jumps you bragged about. The question would hang over Merlin’s head as he watched and re-watched the tape, as news stations played the footage, the headlines screaming: What Went Wrong?
As Merlin and Fish approached the fourth jump, an unintimidating, almost friendly jump shaped like a treasure chest, Merlin felt strange. Something was wrong. Something was off. It was a feeling, a sensation deep in his chest, like he was being invaded, like something was wrong about the air--about the world--about the sky. The feeling lasted only a second before Merlin and Fish lifted off, soaring over the jump in perfect unison.
People who blinked missed it.
They were in the air; they were flying.
And then they were on the ground.
It was like someone had hit the fast forward button, and the tape had skipped. Horse and rider lay in the dirt with several feet between them. For an instant, the world was frozen. Then Fish’s sides heaved and he rose slowly, painstakingly, to his feet. Everyone watched the big black stallion as he stood there, breathing heavily and clearly in pain. A cheer went up; the crowd was glad to see the horse standing. Almost as quickly as the cheer had risen--it died. It shattered.
Merlin did not get up.
~~~
The hospital was white and it echoed when Merlin woke up screaming.
~~~
Three weeks passed, and Merlin went home to an empty flat and a nurse that came and visited him every four hours for therapy and to make sure he wasn’t in an immobile heap on the floor. She danced around the issues, saying things like “take your time” and “everything will be fixed when it’s ready to be fixed, Merlin” and what Merlin understood beneath her cheery smile was “you may never ride again.”
The days passed by, and Merlin counted them by prescription refills and the numbers of pills he took in order to sleep the whole night through. Oddly enough, he thought often about his cabbie. He wondered how much money the man had lost betting on the rider who fell apart.
The pills didn’t help much. He still woke up screaming. He saw one doctor, then two, then three, and the fourth one had cold hands and a tired old-man’s smile, but he said “You will ride again, Merlin” with a kind lilt in his voice. Merlin had expected to feel relief. Instead, he felt sick.
When the accident was eight weeks behind him, Merlin moved to London.
He sold his flat in Ireland and tried to sell his horse. He was shut down by first his mother, and then any buyer he tried to find after he’d told her his plans. He didn’t know why they wanted him to keep Fish, so he packed his stuff up and put water between them. He donated all of his riding clothes, and wanted to donate his tack, but he couldn’t go back to the barn, and no one would do it for him. Just thinking about it made his hands shake, and he swallowed down the taste of dirt and blood.
Merlin’s accident was behind him, except for when it wasn’t.
It was reincarnated in medical bills and continued visits to the doctor. Now the nurses said things like “lucky” and “through the worst of it” they said that he wouldn’t be able to compete again, but he could ride the lucky boy. They said “We thought you’d be paralyzed” and the more optimistic ones admitted they thought he would die. Merlin started wishing that he had.
The Fisher King and Merlin, according to the papers, would never compete again. Horse and Rider hadn’t even been in each other’s company since the accident, if rumors were to be believed (they were right). The press took to the story with an appetite for the gory details. The thrill of it spoke to the thousands, although many of them knew nothing at all about horses or Merlin. It was the mystery of it that haunted him and delighted the press. No one could figure out what had gone wrong.
The tapes showed a perfect jump, and perfect form. Some people pointed to the crowd, wondering if anyone there had done something. All anyone could find, however, was a perfect day, and a little boy in the background with golden brown eyes and his hands raised in delight. Some members of the press pointed out a strange shimmer in the air, but mostly everyone put it down to lens flares or faulty cameras, a too bright sun. Strange shimmers and little boys with raised up hands didn’t cause accidents. The focus shifted back to Merlin and The Fisher King, and the conversations continued.The mystery stayed stagnant, unsolvable, but it didn’t stop people from talking about it.
So Merlin lived in London, and he didn’t pick up the phone. He lived off old prize money and licked his wounds. The weeks melted away. November became December and people (press and friends and teammates alike) stopped calling. Will never stopped, but Merlin refused to see him. He had his groceries delivered and let his legs ache. He woke up with imaginary sand grinding in his teeth.
On December 3, Will picked his lock. He sat on Merlin’s floor and stared at him until Merlin agreed to get up off the couch. For the first time since the accident, Merlin cried. It was ugly: he screamed and lashed out, sobbed and choked for air. Will never once let him go. When December 3 gave up on itself, and the clock showed the earliest hours of December 4, Will kissed Merlin and said, “I know just the girl for you,” and Merlin laughed through a sob and rolled his eyes. “Really,” Will insisted. “She’s nice and so not into me, but she’ll be good for you.”
“I don’t know,” Merlin said, and it felt like he hadn’t used his voice in years.
“Really?” Will asked, “Well, she’s moving in tomorrow. Or, Hey! I guess actually today!”
Merlin said, “I’m going to need another kiss,” and lost himself in Will like he used to when he was small.
~~~
Will’s “nice girl” was a force of nature named Guinevere. She made Merlin eat three meals a day, and with infinite patience became his best friend. It took her only ten days to worm her way underneath his skin, and she let him cling to her.
“Merlin,” she said on morning eleven over tea and toast, “I’d like you to come to Camelot with me.”
“No,” he said.
“Sorry, did that sound like a question?”
Camelot was a therapeutic barn that Gwen worked at, but Merlin knew of it because his godfather, Gaius was the owner.
Merlin ended up there for Christmas Eve, and they ate food until they could barely breathe. On Christmas morning, Gwen dragged him kicking and screaming out to the barn. He smelt the hay, and after that it was all over. He got on a horse again (Fish) for the first time since his accident. Mostly because Gwen wouldn’t stop badgering him.
“Happy Christmas,” he said to Fish, breathing for what felt like the first time in ages.
~~~
“I threw up right after that,” Merlin said, turning to look at Arthur with a small smile. “It was horrible. I was so embarrassed. I wanted it to be like a movie, you know? Where I got on my horse and everything was perfect right away. But it wasn’t. I threw up every time I rode him for the first two months after Christmas. I was a wreck. I couldn’t handle it, the guilt, the fear--it was crippling. But Gwen was there, and Gaius, and mum, and Will. I push myself too hard sometimes--you saw that the other day, but it’s not all bad.”
Merlin hadn’t talked for that long in--well, he actually couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked for so long. Arthur was looking at him in silence, pulling at blades of grass.
“My accident was the same,” Arthur said finally, after too many moments of silence. “Exactly like that. The fourth jump. The mystery. Everything.”
Merlin nodded, “I know,” he said quietly. “I followed it in the papers,” he smiled wryly. “Started getting phone calls again, actually. I was in New York when I heard about it--it hasn’t been long. You can take your time, but--” Merlin paused and tipped his head back, “I was miserable when I wasn’t riding. Sometimes I’m still miserable, and my body will always be a mess, but I’m less miserable now that I’m doing this again. I think that’s important for me, and it might not be for you, maybe you don’t need to ride--I can’t speak for everyone who has ever had an accident. But I look at you, Arthur, and you have so much--you could still do so much.” Merlin shrugged and half smiled.
Arthur stared ahead at the water, and Merlin jumped when a warm huff of breath shifted his hair. He turned around, smiling at Fish. “You clever boy,” he said softly, stroking his horse’s muzzle. “My clever boy. Did you get yourself free?”
Merlin could feel Arthur’s eyes on him, but he didn’t look. He basked in the sunlight and in the feeling of his horse breathing on his ear.
Arthur jumped up abruptly, and even that looked smooth and effortless to Merlin, who did nothing abruptly anymore (or rather, did everything abruptly, but never smoothly). “I want to go,” Arthur said shortly.
He was leading Gwaine back down the path before Merlin had even gotten all the way to his feet. “Arthur!” Merlin called, frowning.
Arthur turned around, and the expression on his face said the same thing that Arthur had been saying, out loud and in his mind, ever since Merlin met him. Ever since the day he’d walked through the doors of Camelot, which was--god, Merlin winced, barely any time ago at all (but it felt like ages). Arthur looked at him, dark and petulant and something else, something that Merlin couldn’t find words for, but that resonated in a part of Merlin that felt ancient and new all at once. My horse is dead, Arthur’s face said.
And Merlin found that he couldn’t move. He imagined himself moving forward, catching Arthur’s shoulder and talking him down, but his body held still, and Merlin stared at Arthur until he couldn’t see him anymore, and the forest seemed to swallow them both alive.
>>>
Art link: On LJ
Rating: R
Word Count: ~41,000
Morgana gave him a week of quiet before she finally turned on him.
“No,” he said when she opened her mouth. Her intentions were written all over her face, clear and bright and full of importance. She was, typically, even dressed for the occasion. Her ‘don’t fuck with me’ heels made him have to tilt his head up, and as he was sitting on the couch the angle was a bit off. These were the boots--she probably considered them more appropriate for a barn. Arthur considered them the bane of his existence.
“Arthur,” she said patiently, “You’re being ridiculous.”
“How exactly am I being ridiculous?”
“You’re a rider! You used to tell people that before you told them your name.”
“I remember. Father was quick to change that habit.”
Morgana sobered and dropped down on the couch next to him. “Have you spoken with him, then?”
“This week? Yes.”
Morgana looked away, her gaze straying toward the window of their living room. The whole room was huge, and sort of bare, but Arthur loved the window-or more importantly, he loved the expansive view. “I’ll be the first to say that I disagree with Uther’s practices,” Mogana said carefully.
“Disagree?” Arthur snorted, “You lead a protest group.”
“His team is-no, look, Arthur that’s really beside the point. Uther is a great coach. He might be able to help you.”
“I don’t want Uther to help me, Morgana. I don’t want to ride.”
“But why not?”
“Because I killed my horse!”
Next to him, Morgana went completely still. Arthur set his jaw and pushed up off the couch. Now that it was out in the open, there was no reason to pretend that everyone hadn’t been thinking about it. He’d said it. “You know it’s true, Morgana,” Arthur added, “The accident. Excalibur doesn’t-didn’t-make mistakes like that. He was too good. It had to be something I did,” he didn’t look away from the wall while he spoke, just squared his shoulders.
“You can’t blame yourself-”
“Everyone does,” Arthur cut in. “Absolutely everyone.”
“The accident was strange, you couldn’t possibly have prepared for-”
“It was my job to be prepared. It doesn’t matter what happened, what matters is what didn’t happen. I failed, Morgana. I failed to react. I killed my horse and I’m not going to ride again, I’m not going to be responsible for that. Please,” his voice dropped, “Please respect my wishes.”
“No,” Morgana said, standing up. She walked toward the door. “I won’t, because you’re wrong, Arthur. You’re being a git, and I don’t have time to listen to this. The address for Camelot is on the fridge.”
She slammed the door on her way out, and Arthur dropped back down onto the couch. The idea of getting back on a horse wasn’t just-not getting back on a horse wasn’t about being stubborn. It wasn’t about pride, or about being lazy. The thought of it made Arthur’s palms sweat, it made his skin clammy, and made him want to get under the covers and never get back out again.
He didn’t remember the accident. Not a second of it. All he remembered was the endless blue of the sky, the way his body felt as it twisted through the air, and then there was silence. He hadn’t even heard Arcturus’s breathing stop (of course, it hadn’t stopped. Not then, not in the ring. It happened in some barn, while Arcturus was surrounded by strangers, in pain, and Arthur was high on drugs and asleep in a hospital room. Arcturus's breathing hadn’t stopped that day, but Arthur thought--irrationally, perhaps--that he should have known).
What Morgana didn’t understand, or maybe what she couldn’t understand, was that Arcturus had been a part of Arthur. The concept sounded strange, even in the privacy of his mind, but Arcturus had never been just a horse, never just the mechanism through which he competed. Arcturus had been an extension of Arthur’s self, as real and vital to him as his legs or his arms. He missed the horse so badly that it ached.
~~~
“Arthur, get the phone!”
Morgana’s voice rang out through the flat, and Arthur blinked awake. He was curled up on the couch, still, where Morgana had left him. The phone registered then, blaring and shrill, and he stumbled to his feet, grabbed the phone. “This is Arthur,” he said, as he’d been trained to do since he was young enough (and old enough) to be trusted with answering the phone.
“Arthur! Hi! It’s Vivian. How are you?”
He thought about hanging up, but that would have been rude. “Viv,” he answered, “Hey, I’m all right-” He wanted to ask how she’d gotten the number, it was on the tip of his tongue, “--How have you been?”
“Excellent,” she laughed in his ear, “I haven’t heard from you in ages, I thought I’d call. Sorry it’s so loud, I’m on the street and it’s quite busy.”
“Is someone selling something and you don’t want to talk to them?”
“Yes! These bloody-I don’t even know what it is, something about adoption? Or maybe mobile plans, or missile plans, who knows. They won’t let me alone, so I’ll look busy and catch up with an old friend.”
“Sophia’s not with you, then.”
“What? No. She’s-” Vivian hesitated, he could hear the hiccup of her breath in the phone, “She’s over in America, right now. Buying a horse.”
“America? Why’s she there?”
“Something about a bloodline, you know, she’s picky about those things. Never has got a horse quite good enough to beat you though, you and your Great Bear. I think she only dated you for your horse.”
Arthur froze, and he waited for the stumbled apology, the I forgot it was so sensitive. He waited for Vivian to panic and take her words back, or hang the phone up. “Anyway,” she said instead, “I’ve got this new girlfriend, I think you’d really like her. She’s a good rider, although she’s never had the money to show before. I think she’s trying for a sponsor, and I’m hoping to convince your father to take her on. Come out with us, sometime, would you? I haven’t seen your face in the newspaper in such a long time, and it seems to me to be a crime to deny the people your lovely visage.”
“I don’t know, Viv.”
“Morgana says you haven’t left your apartment much. You’re hurting, and I understand. You lost your horse, Arthur, but that doesn’t mean you have to lose riding, too.”
“Why does everyone want to have this conversation with me?” he recognized the petulance in his voice, and winced. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound so much like a child.”
“Don’t fuss, Arthur. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but you’re hardly going to scare me off. Yes, fine, you don’t want to talk about it. But, Arthur, have you been to the grave site? It’s really beautiful. Right on your favorite spot in that one trail out in the country. By the lake, you know the one. Did you pick it?”
“No,” Arthur said around the lump in his throat, “My father did. I haven’t been.”
“Come out with us sometime,” Vivian insisted in his ear, “And if you don’t want to, that’s fine too, but then come with me to visit Arcturus. You should see it, Arthur.”
“I don’t think I can see it,” Arthur said, sitting down with his back pressed against the wall. “I know what I sound like. I know it’s pathetic-but I just-I can’t-”
“I know, Arthur,” Vivian said. “Look, think on it. You’re seeing me though. Freya-that’s her name-she’s wonderful, and I want you to meet her. You really will like her.”
“It’s good to talk to you, Vivian.”
“You too, Arthur. I’ll bow out. But hey, you need to get on a horse. You know that old adage about getting back on? It’s true. You’re not going to feel better until you get on a horse.”
“Ok,” he said.
“You’ll do it?”
“I don’t know. Baby steps, maybe.”
“Well, there’s a barn that Freya knows-”
“No, don’t worry, Morgana found me a place. Give Sophia my-uh-good wishes.”
“Of course, darling,” Vivian laughed. “I’ll talk to you later. Be good! By the way, keep your heels down and stick your tits out.”
Arthur set down the phone. He couldn’t help but smile.
~~~
One of those things about barns everywhere that always rang the same in Arthur’s ears was the sound his tires made when they rolled up to the building. The universal sound of crunching gravel that always made him want to hurry to get out of the car, to go and ride, to do something. He heard that noise when he pulled up to Camelot, this time without Morgana (and in his own car), but it just made him nervous. He wanted to turn around and go back to London. He’d had the whole drive over to talk himself out of going through with this.
But he could see Merlin, and the off-beat but steady swing of his walk as he came out of the barn. He was silhouetted against the blue of the stable, and Arthur couldn’t really see his face, but he knew it was Merlin all the same. The gait was a dead giveaway, but if not that then the slightly crooked line of his shoulders would do the trick. If nothing else worked, the fluff of hair on top of his head that made it look like he’d just gotten out of bed probably would have convinced Arthur of who it was.
He ran his hand up his side, over the scar on his torso, before he pushed the door open. He was wearing trainers, but his boots were in a pile in the back of the car, right next to his helmet. He left both of those where they were. Arthur didn’t even know if he wanted to ride yet, let alone what he was doing at this barn.
“Hey,” Merlin said, stopping several feet from Arthur. It gave the impression that he was hiding, ready to run back into the barn at the slightest provocation.
“Hi,” Arthur agreed, closing the distance between them. He held out his hand for Merlin to shake. “I want to apologize for my behavior last week, it was inappropriate. I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me like this.”
Merlin shrugged, “Therapeutic riding center,” he said, “Kind of my job.”
“Right,” Arthur shifted, “You will of course be compensated for-”
“Right,” Merlin echoed, cutting Arthur off. “Look, I know you’re nervous about this. Or uncomfortable. I was the same, and it’s fine to feel like that. That’s what they don’t tell you. You groomed Gwaine last week, yeah? Let’s start there.”
It was a lesson plan and an offer disguised as an order, but Arthur went along with it. The barn looked the same as it had the week before. Still clean and tidy, with that over-everything fine grit of barn dust that made people who didn’t know horses wrinkle their noses. He breathed it in and closed his eyes, letting the sound of Merlin in front of him guide him to wherever they were going.
Where they were going was a tack room, and it was huge. Everything was organized. Arthur approved-he himself had driven Morgana, his father, and any number of writing instructors to the brink of madness with his careful organization of the tack rooms on the Pendragon estate. Arthur grabbed the grooming bucket that had ‘Gwaine’ scrawled across it in loopy, childish letters. He raised an eyebrow at Merlin.
“We have the kids design new buckets every year during summer camp,” Merlin said. “It’s part of how we get them comfortable with ‘their’ horses. We assign each kid a horse for the whole two weeks; it helps them to feel like they’re really part of the whole thing.”
Arthur nodded his head blankly, looking inside the grooming bucket. On the back of each brush was an index card. The same loopy handwriting offered grooming instructions-how to use the curry comb, the hard and soft brushes, the hoof pick. Everything was carefully ordered in a sequential number. Arthur couldn’t help the tight lipped smile. He had learned all of this in much the same way.
“I already groomed Fish,” Merlin said, “But he won’t mind a little extra attention.”
He grabbed a bucket that wasn’t decorated at all, just plain and black, covered in scratches and dents that told of travel. Arthur let Merlin out first so that he could lead the way. He used the opportunity to sweep his eyes over the tack room. In the corner, well out of the way of grabbing childish hands and accidental spills sat a set of tack-three saddles, two bridles, and everything polished to perfection. Arthur knew what that kind of dedication was. In a barn full of dusty lesson saddles, Merlin’s old show gear was painfully obvious. What was strangest to Arthur was the pristine condition the tack was in. Merlin clearly wasn’t showing-if Merlin Emrys had so much as walked past a horse show, Arthur would know. Still, it looked cared for and loved, even though it had been nearly two years since Merlin had hit the ground and his career had come to a standstill.
“Are you coming?” Merlin called. Embarrassed to have been caught staring again, Arthur let himself quickly out of the tack room and shut the door behind him.
~~~
“So you haven’t been around horses at all?” Merlin was asking as they walked on an old trail.
Arthur looked up, he’d been lost in thought, comforted by the warmth of Gwaine at his shoulder, and the huff of the horse’s warm breath against wrist. “Not since the accident,” Arthur said softly, “Morgana tricked me into it last time,” he was quiet. “My friend pointed it out to me yesterday, but I haven’t even been to Bear’s grave.”
“Bear?”
“Arcturus. The show name is a mouthful, and it’s the name of the brightest star in a constellation near Ursa Major, which means the great bear. It’s stupid,” Arthur said softly, “The star is in a different constellation, but I didn’t want my horse’s nickname to be Cow,” he paused, “Morgana used to call him Moocow, she was horrid.”
Merlin laughed and rubbed his hand over The Fisher King’s neck. “Tell me about it. I named my horse ‘The Fisher King’ and now we all call him Fish. Poor guy.”
Arthur grinned, “I think Bear came about because I had such a hard time saying ‘Arcturus’ without laughing. The name wasn’t my idea at all, it was Morgana’s. Something about King Arthur and latin--I don’t know, it didn’t make sense to me to name my horse after that, but it stuck. Bear suits him, though--suited him, I mean.”
Merlin didn’t say anything about Arthur’s slip; he just reached over and squeezed his shoulder. His smile was warm and a little tired around the edges. “Gwaine’s no purebread champion, that’s for sure, and he’ll eat all the hay and grain in the barn until he gets himself sick, but he’s a steady mount-a good horse, and he loves people and having fun.”
Arthur glanced at the palomino, who nipped mischievously at the sleeve of his jacket. “He seems like a trouble maker.”
“He means well,” Merlin said.
“Do you ride him, much?” Arthur asked curiously, “Or any of the other horses?”
Merlin nodded, “I do. It took me a little while to get used to the idea, but I can’t take Fish out for a lot of the lesson groups or trail rides. He’s fragile, still. We both are. We have to be careful, don’t we boy?” he clucked affectionately at his horse, “But I’m more reckless with me than with him. I like Gwaine for the kids because he’s so good. I take out anyone who’s free, really. If Gwen’s not riding, I take out her mare.”
“The dappled grey she was riding when we passed the ring?”
“Yeah. Her name’s Kingdom’s Smithy, but we call her Smith.”
“Smithy?”
“Like a black smith. We have a bit of a middle ages theme around here, I guess.”
“The stable is called Camelot.”
“And look at us, Arthur and Merlin.”
They both laughed, and Arthur ran his fingers over Gwaine’s back. “You know, I don’t even know what I’d do if I started showing again. I haven’t got a horse,” he was quiet. “I don’t know if I want another horse.”
“No one expects you to start showing tomorrow, Arthur, and honestly, no one should blame you if you never show again, but you should ride.”
“That’s what everyone keeps telling me,” Arthur said softly. “I’m just not so sure I agree.”
“Why not?”
“Because I killed my horse.”
Merlin was quiet next to him. “Let’s stop over here and sit down,” Merlin said after a while. They’d reached a clearing, and a little creek moved through. There was a spot to secure the horses, and Arthur followed Merlin’s lead and secured Gwaine next to Fish. “I never told anyone about the accident,” Merlin started once they’d settled down, “It wasn’t a story I wanted to tell. There were loads of people who wanted to hear it, but I kind of felt like it was mine, you know? My fault. No one else seemed to blame me, and I didn’t want to tell them my perspective, because I thought they’d call me guilty. By the time I was ready to tell it, people didn’t want to listen anymore.”
“You didn’t tell Gwen?”
“No,” Merlin said. “My accident, was--well, you read the papers. It was a freak thing-the kind of thing that doesn’t happen to people. . .”
~~~
The day was bright and crisp and clear. Merlin woke up with his legs shaking. The day before had been so perfect it was almost as thought it was out of a dream. Still, even though the morning was absolutely still and quiet, he could feel the buzz of excitement that permeated the air. Everyone was alive, everyone was beautiful--Merlin waxed poetic about it in his head as he flipped through the news reports on his phone. His name was in nearly all of them, a description of a boy and his horse, taking the showing world by storm--so communicative that it almost seemed like they were actually talking to each other. Everyone had been so impressed by yesterday’s performance. Merlin had never been so proud of his horse before, and he knew that show jumping today would be just as amazing.
After he’d brushed his teeth and run wet hands through his hair to quiet the excited puffs that the pillow had created, he walked over to the closet. The door was open, displaying to anyone who walked in the room the careful elegance of Merlin’s show clothes. They had been pressed and repressed, every wrinkle scared away first by Merlin, and then Hunith (“You call that pressed, young man?” she’d exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air at the hopelessness of her boy), and now they looked perfect. On the floor below them, his boots were practically glowing from the careful polishing the night before. He’d wanted to sleep at the barn, but his trainer had warned against it with a firm hand on Merlin’s shoulder and the advice that he’d do better to get a good nights sleep. (Merlin had barely slept a second of the night before).
It felt like it took forever, but finally his clothing, boots, and helmet had been carefully packed away for transport to the barn. When he stepped outside the door, the sound of the latch clicking shut behind him echoed in the silent hallway. The dawn had barely cracked the sky, and anyone who wasn’t competing was still sound asleep behind the faceless wooden doors. Merlin didn’t see any of his competition, either, but he couldn’t be certain they hadn’t already left.
Outside the hotel, a cab was waiting for him. “Morning to ya,” the cabbie said, smiling as Merlin slid in. “What’s your number in the show today? We want to know which of our riders is gonna win this thing.” Merlin laughed and told him, then settled back for the ride. It was a blur of shapes and trees and houses and buildings, but Merlin didn’t see a single thing. He only saw what was behind his eyelids, the image of Fish and him, taking each jump with precision and style. Taking the trophy. Showing the world how much they could do.
They pulled up in front of the entrance, the tiles crunching on the gravel. The barn wasn’t quiet--it was loud and alive. The sun was just barely painting the roof in shades of light, and already Merlin could hear calls and hollers, the sounds of humans and horses. He thanked the cabbie and paid his fare, and got wished good luck.
He flashed his badge at the security guard at the door and then he was in front of Fish’s stall. “Hey,” he said to his horse. “Hi,” he added, leaning his head against Fish’s dark muzzle. It was still quiet by this stall, and there were no camera flashes, or anything to distract Merlin from his horse. They were the youngest horse and rider there, and the pair of them caught more than their fair share of attention from press and competition alike. Merlin relished this moment of just the two of them. He kissed Fish’s dark muzzle, “Today is our day,” he whispered. “Good morning.”
The hours crept by too slowly and too quickly. Merlin was caught in between moments of preparation--polishing his boots again and fixing, and then refixing, Fish’s mane--and moments of complete and utter stillness while he waited for his chance to warm up. Hunith brought him a coffee and a kiss. She ruffled his hair, and Merlin spent longer than he needed to making it lay flat again. Will called, sorry that he couldn’t be there, but he was competing himself--off in America, being ridiculous, and Merlin couldn’t blame him. They talked for a while despite the time difference, eating away at time and the nerves that they both struggled with.
Finally, finally they were presentable. They were ready. His boots were clean. There was no hay in Merlin’s hair. There was the sound of a roar, as though he would be swallowed (and deafened) by the first burst of sound from the crowd, but the second Fish’s foot touched dirt, everything went silent.
The noise of the crowd disappeared. Merlin was transported to a world where there was only himself and his horse. Just the two of them, breathing in unison, existing as one thing. Fish was warm and solid beneath Merlin, prancing and eager and so well behaved. Merlin allowed himself the smallest smile as they approached the first jump.
It was easy, as Merlin knew it would be, and he approached the jump without nerves. Fish excelled at ramped oxers, although they were nothing particularly challenging, and really, Fish excelled at everything. It was a good first jump on a course like this, difficult enough to keep them focused, but the jump itself--with the back pole set higher than the front pole--would not be particularly hard for the pair. In fact, it wasn’t hard at all. It was beautiful. Merlin could feel Fish take it, and as he rose in his seat, he felt (not for the first time, never for the first time) as though they were flying.
The second jump, a roll top, was harder. Again, Fish’s jump was perfect. Merlin’s eyes never strayed from the jump ahead, but he could imagine what they looked like, soaring over the solid expanse of wood. He knew without wondering that they looked amazing together, all dark hair between them, but this jump felt--it felt like winning. He didn’t have to wonder about the time, Merlin could feel the seconds, like he felt so much about riding, sliding by without concern. They were making excellent time, he didn’t need to know the numbers to know they were the best so far. He was doing well. They were both doing well.
Merlin had been nervous about the third jump going into the competition. When they had first started out, Fish and Merlin had both had a strange and unfounded fear for Liverpools. Fish, because the idea of the water below him made him antsy, and Merlin because it had been before he’d learned to trust his horse going over an oxer. When combined--the pool below the oxer--they had struggled for months to overcome their slightly irrational problem. Today though, today Merlin let the last ounces of fear he held so close to his chest go. He trusted his horse. “We’ve got this,” he whispered, his lips not even moving. Fish’s ears twitched back at him, and Merlin pressed his fingers against Fish’s neck. “I trust you,” he said.
He felt it the moment Fish’s feet took off from the ground, and Merlin locked his eyes straight ahead.
They landed.
And Merlin heard the crowd roar.
For months after that third jump, critics and analysts, press and friends and family would wonder what went wrong. Those first three jumps had been the best jumps of Merlin and Fish’s career. They had been elegant--flawless--the kind of jumps you bragged about. The question would hang over Merlin’s head as he watched and re-watched the tape, as news stations played the footage, the headlines screaming: What Went Wrong?
As Merlin and Fish approached the fourth jump, an unintimidating, almost friendly jump shaped like a treasure chest, Merlin felt strange. Something was wrong. Something was off. It was a feeling, a sensation deep in his chest, like he was being invaded, like something was wrong about the air--about the world--about the sky. The feeling lasted only a second before Merlin and Fish lifted off, soaring over the jump in perfect unison.
People who blinked missed it.
They were in the air; they were flying.
And then they were on the ground.
It was like someone had hit the fast forward button, and the tape had skipped. Horse and rider lay in the dirt with several feet between them. For an instant, the world was frozen. Then Fish’s sides heaved and he rose slowly, painstakingly, to his feet. Everyone watched the big black stallion as he stood there, breathing heavily and clearly in pain. A cheer went up; the crowd was glad to see the horse standing. Almost as quickly as the cheer had risen--it died. It shattered.
Merlin did not get up.
~~~
The hospital was white and it echoed when Merlin woke up screaming.
~~~
Three weeks passed, and Merlin went home to an empty flat and a nurse that came and visited him every four hours for therapy and to make sure he wasn’t in an immobile heap on the floor. She danced around the issues, saying things like “take your time” and “everything will be fixed when it’s ready to be fixed, Merlin” and what Merlin understood beneath her cheery smile was “you may never ride again.”
The days passed by, and Merlin counted them by prescription refills and the numbers of pills he took in order to sleep the whole night through. Oddly enough, he thought often about his cabbie. He wondered how much money the man had lost betting on the rider who fell apart.
The pills didn’t help much. He still woke up screaming. He saw one doctor, then two, then three, and the fourth one had cold hands and a tired old-man’s smile, but he said “You will ride again, Merlin” with a kind lilt in his voice. Merlin had expected to feel relief. Instead, he felt sick.
When the accident was eight weeks behind him, Merlin moved to London.
He sold his flat in Ireland and tried to sell his horse. He was shut down by first his mother, and then any buyer he tried to find after he’d told her his plans. He didn’t know why they wanted him to keep Fish, so he packed his stuff up and put water between them. He donated all of his riding clothes, and wanted to donate his tack, but he couldn’t go back to the barn, and no one would do it for him. Just thinking about it made his hands shake, and he swallowed down the taste of dirt and blood.
Merlin’s accident was behind him, except for when it wasn’t.
It was reincarnated in medical bills and continued visits to the doctor. Now the nurses said things like “lucky” and “through the worst of it” they said that he wouldn’t be able to compete again, but he could ride the lucky boy. They said “We thought you’d be paralyzed” and the more optimistic ones admitted they thought he would die. Merlin started wishing that he had.
The Fisher King and Merlin, according to the papers, would never compete again. Horse and Rider hadn’t even been in each other’s company since the accident, if rumors were to be believed (they were right). The press took to the story with an appetite for the gory details. The thrill of it spoke to the thousands, although many of them knew nothing at all about horses or Merlin. It was the mystery of it that haunted him and delighted the press. No one could figure out what had gone wrong.
The tapes showed a perfect jump, and perfect form. Some people pointed to the crowd, wondering if anyone there had done something. All anyone could find, however, was a perfect day, and a little boy in the background with golden brown eyes and his hands raised in delight. Some members of the press pointed out a strange shimmer in the air, but mostly everyone put it down to lens flares or faulty cameras, a too bright sun. Strange shimmers and little boys with raised up hands didn’t cause accidents. The focus shifted back to Merlin and The Fisher King, and the conversations continued.The mystery stayed stagnant, unsolvable, but it didn’t stop people from talking about it.
So Merlin lived in London, and he didn’t pick up the phone. He lived off old prize money and licked his wounds. The weeks melted away. November became December and people (press and friends and teammates alike) stopped calling. Will never stopped, but Merlin refused to see him. He had his groceries delivered and let his legs ache. He woke up with imaginary sand grinding in his teeth.
On December 3, Will picked his lock. He sat on Merlin’s floor and stared at him until Merlin agreed to get up off the couch. For the first time since the accident, Merlin cried. It was ugly: he screamed and lashed out, sobbed and choked for air. Will never once let him go. When December 3 gave up on itself, and the clock showed the earliest hours of December 4, Will kissed Merlin and said, “I know just the girl for you,” and Merlin laughed through a sob and rolled his eyes. “Really,” Will insisted. “She’s nice and so not into me, but she’ll be good for you.”
“I don’t know,” Merlin said, and it felt like he hadn’t used his voice in years.
“Really?” Will asked, “Well, she’s moving in tomorrow. Or, Hey! I guess actually today!”
Merlin said, “I’m going to need another kiss,” and lost himself in Will like he used to when he was small.
~~~
Will’s “nice girl” was a force of nature named Guinevere. She made Merlin eat three meals a day, and with infinite patience became his best friend. It took her only ten days to worm her way underneath his skin, and she let him cling to her.
“Merlin,” she said on morning eleven over tea and toast, “I’d like you to come to Camelot with me.”
“No,” he said.
“Sorry, did that sound like a question?”
Camelot was a therapeutic barn that Gwen worked at, but Merlin knew of it because his godfather, Gaius was the owner.
Merlin ended up there for Christmas Eve, and they ate food until they could barely breathe. On Christmas morning, Gwen dragged him kicking and screaming out to the barn. He smelt the hay, and after that it was all over. He got on a horse again (Fish) for the first time since his accident. Mostly because Gwen wouldn’t stop badgering him.
“Happy Christmas,” he said to Fish, breathing for what felt like the first time in ages.
~~~
“I threw up right after that,” Merlin said, turning to look at Arthur with a small smile. “It was horrible. I was so embarrassed. I wanted it to be like a movie, you know? Where I got on my horse and everything was perfect right away. But it wasn’t. I threw up every time I rode him for the first two months after Christmas. I was a wreck. I couldn’t handle it, the guilt, the fear--it was crippling. But Gwen was there, and Gaius, and mum, and Will. I push myself too hard sometimes--you saw that the other day, but it’s not all bad.”
Merlin hadn’t talked for that long in--well, he actually couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked for so long. Arthur was looking at him in silence, pulling at blades of grass.
“My accident was the same,” Arthur said finally, after too many moments of silence. “Exactly like that. The fourth jump. The mystery. Everything.”
Merlin nodded, “I know,” he said quietly. “I followed it in the papers,” he smiled wryly. “Started getting phone calls again, actually. I was in New York when I heard about it--it hasn’t been long. You can take your time, but--” Merlin paused and tipped his head back, “I was miserable when I wasn’t riding. Sometimes I’m still miserable, and my body will always be a mess, but I’m less miserable now that I’m doing this again. I think that’s important for me, and it might not be for you, maybe you don’t need to ride--I can’t speak for everyone who has ever had an accident. But I look at you, Arthur, and you have so much--you could still do so much.” Merlin shrugged and half smiled.
Arthur stared ahead at the water, and Merlin jumped when a warm huff of breath shifted his hair. He turned around, smiling at Fish. “You clever boy,” he said softly, stroking his horse’s muzzle. “My clever boy. Did you get yourself free?”
Merlin could feel Arthur’s eyes on him, but he didn’t look. He basked in the sunlight and in the feeling of his horse breathing on his ear.
Arthur jumped up abruptly, and even that looked smooth and effortless to Merlin, who did nothing abruptly anymore (or rather, did everything abruptly, but never smoothly). “I want to go,” Arthur said shortly.
He was leading Gwaine back down the path before Merlin had even gotten all the way to his feet. “Arthur!” Merlin called, frowning.
Arthur turned around, and the expression on his face said the same thing that Arthur had been saying, out loud and in his mind, ever since Merlin met him. Ever since the day he’d walked through the doors of Camelot, which was--god, Merlin winced, barely any time ago at all (but it felt like ages). Arthur looked at him, dark and petulant and something else, something that Merlin couldn’t find words for, but that resonated in a part of Merlin that felt ancient and new all at once. My horse is dead, Arthur’s face said.
And Merlin found that he couldn’t move. He imagined himself moving forward, catching Arthur’s shoulder and talking him down, but his body held still, and Merlin stared at Arthur until he couldn’t see him anymore, and the forest seemed to swallow them both alive.
>>>