Merlin: Hurt
Title: Hurt
Author: shesashewolf
Fandom: Merlin
Characters: Merlin
Warning(s): Angst, Character Death
Word count: 1,010
Disclaimer: Characters are property of BBC and no profit is being made.
Notes: This is my first (un-beta'd) fic on LJ. All the mistakes are mine and concrit is definitely welcome.
Summary: He knows Arthur must have been so inexplicably sad and alone... so like himself.
Cross-posted at merlinxarthur
Merlin pulls the scarf tighter around his neck to fight against the autumn chill. His clothes are in disarray from sudden upheaval and he has four days worth of stubble covering his jaw. However, none of that matters - not his hygiene, his ragged clothes or the thousands of miles he has traveled in this state. He hurries down the street, an invisible pull urging him onward like a leash. The sensations have grown slightly stronger and he knows it will be only a matter of time before he is united with his bounty.
The man stops and fixates upon a head of blond hair that bobs along with the pedestrian flow. The colour is lighter than he remembers and it angers him how he could have forgotten the shade. It takes everything in Merlin not to break into a sprint as he hurries to catch up to the man.
“Excuse me. Pardon! Sorry, I just need - Sorry, please -,” Merlin worms his way by many irritated people until the light haired man is within range. He reaches out and grasps the arm of a fitted jacket, tugging it to get the owner’s attention. The blond man turns sharply, startled, and stares at Merlin.
“Est-ce que je vous connais?” The man asks as his shoulders tightening defensively. Merlin searches the man’s features frantically hoping for any form of recognition. His face is wrong - eyes too far apart and nose too wide. Most importantly, the ache within Merlin’s chest does not ease; it merely urges him on, beyond this man he has accosted.
Merlin quickly excuses himself, “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were a bloke I went to Uni with - Terribly sorry, mate!" He adds a swift, "Je m'excuse!” He lets go of the man’s arm and rushes onward before he can hear the grumbled remarks of the disgruntled fellow.
Merlin berates himself as his feet carry him forward, now running down the paved walkway. That man could not have been him, Merlin realizes this now. He was far too old and he obviously wasn’t from the area if that French was anything to go on. But what shames Merlin most is that he could have ever doubted himself on his hair. He has never forgotten that tawny, golden mixture and it seems an insult to have compared it to that man’s dishwater mop.
He continues on, trainers slapping against the pavement and air heavy in his lungs. He doesn’t bother peering into any of the shops as he passes; the pull seems to be literally pull at his heartstrings. He is frantic at this point. He knows that he is close, but something is not right - the urge does not feel as strong as it should. Merlin thinks on the last time he’s been in this region, the way his soul had hummed with excitement and how he had to fight his own body not to run to the boy whom he is now mad to find.
Merlin comes back to himself when he breaks off the pavement and is urged to continue beyond a stonewall covered with shrubbery. He frowns, uncertain about where destiny is taking him, but straightens his coat and runs a hand through his hair before continuing beyond the gates entrance.
Entering, he looks up at a bran as it makes a strangled choke before taking off from it’s post on one of the wall’s many turrets. Merlin's Welsh upbringing comes back to him in a flash and he tries to suppress the shudder that runs through him as he remembers his mother’s tales and warnings. Trying to push aside the sense of foreboding, Merlin follows the urge deeper, passed the stone walls.
The crunch of leaves under his trainers becomes too harsh and the wind suddenly becomes frigid as it pushes his hair back. Merlin tries to focus on feeling the sensation tethering him along, willing it to stay strong and lively inside him. Somewhere inside he notices the different structures that begin to clutter the area all around him, becoming more numerous the further he interlopes. He doesn’t want to think about what the arrangements mean but his heart is suddenly in his throat and impossible to swallow around.
The pull ceases.
Merlin begins to shake, the rattle running through his spine and into his limbs, which now feel achingly cold. His ribs hurt and he can’t breathe. His legs give out and he’s on his knees, hands fisting into damp autumn soil and bits of leaves. He heaves a sob and frantically begins to uncover what is hidden beyond the blanket of reds, oranges and browns. The hollow of his eyes hurt and he squeezes them shut as he let’s out a devastated cry.
He shouldn’t have stayed away! He should have been there from the moment he had first felt the pull nearly 16 years ago. This couldn’t happen. This couldn’t be the end, there hadn’t even been a beginning! Hundreds of years of waiting and longing and his only reason for living gone, left nothing but stone fixed in the earth. Merlin opens his eyes and affirms the truth that he knows lay before him.
Arthur Parsons
12.03.1995 - 08.10.2010
Beloved Son
Pressures of This World Too Great
May He Find Peace In the Next
Merlin curls onto his side and waits till the tears cease. He runs his fingers over the cold stone, bits of wet soil sticking to the tips as he traces out the name and dates. He’d been so insanely pleased that March morning - that morning that felt closer to yesterday than nearly two decades ago. And, he knows the very moment when this happened. Remembers the way he startled awake due to the strange connection he held with his charge. He knows Arthur must have been so inexplicably sad and alone... so like how he himself feels now.
And, he doesn’t know which hurts worse - losing Arthur after spending a short lifetime together or knowing that he’d lost the only chance of ever having his lover back.
- - -
1) Est-ce que je vous connais? - the man is basically asking 'do I know you?'
2) Merlin refers to the bird as a 'bran' because bran is Old Welsh for raven.
Please correct me on both of these points if I'm incorrect. :)
Author: shesashewolf
Fandom: Merlin
Characters: Merlin
Warning(s): Angst, Character Death
Word count: 1,010
Disclaimer: Characters are property of BBC and no profit is being made.
Notes: This is my first (un-beta'd) fic on LJ. All the mistakes are mine and concrit is definitely welcome.
Summary: He knows Arthur must have been so inexplicably sad and alone... so like himself.
Cross-posted at merlinxarthur
Merlin pulls the scarf tighter around his neck to fight against the autumn chill. His clothes are in disarray from sudden upheaval and he has four days worth of stubble covering his jaw. However, none of that matters - not his hygiene, his ragged clothes or the thousands of miles he has traveled in this state. He hurries down the street, an invisible pull urging him onward like a leash. The sensations have grown slightly stronger and he knows it will be only a matter of time before he is united with his bounty.
The man stops and fixates upon a head of blond hair that bobs along with the pedestrian flow. The colour is lighter than he remembers and it angers him how he could have forgotten the shade. It takes everything in Merlin not to break into a sprint as he hurries to catch up to the man.
“Excuse me. Pardon! Sorry, I just need - Sorry, please -,” Merlin worms his way by many irritated people until the light haired man is within range. He reaches out and grasps the arm of a fitted jacket, tugging it to get the owner’s attention. The blond man turns sharply, startled, and stares at Merlin.
“Est-ce que je vous connais?” The man asks as his shoulders tightening defensively. Merlin searches the man’s features frantically hoping for any form of recognition. His face is wrong - eyes too far apart and nose too wide. Most importantly, the ache within Merlin’s chest does not ease; it merely urges him on, beyond this man he has accosted.
Merlin quickly excuses himself, “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were a bloke I went to Uni with - Terribly sorry, mate!" He adds a swift, "Je m'excuse!” He lets go of the man’s arm and rushes onward before he can hear the grumbled remarks of the disgruntled fellow.
Merlin berates himself as his feet carry him forward, now running down the paved walkway. That man could not have been him, Merlin realizes this now. He was far too old and he obviously wasn’t from the area if that French was anything to go on. But what shames Merlin most is that he could have ever doubted himself on his hair. He has never forgotten that tawny, golden mixture and it seems an insult to have compared it to that man’s dishwater mop.
He continues on, trainers slapping against the pavement and air heavy in his lungs. He doesn’t bother peering into any of the shops as he passes; the pull seems to be literally pull at his heartstrings. He is frantic at this point. He knows that he is close, but something is not right - the urge does not feel as strong as it should. Merlin thinks on the last time he’s been in this region, the way his soul had hummed with excitement and how he had to fight his own body not to run to the boy whom he is now mad to find.
Merlin comes back to himself when he breaks off the pavement and is urged to continue beyond a stonewall covered with shrubbery. He frowns, uncertain about where destiny is taking him, but straightens his coat and runs a hand through his hair before continuing beyond the gates entrance.
Entering, he looks up at a bran as it makes a strangled choke before taking off from it’s post on one of the wall’s many turrets. Merlin's Welsh upbringing comes back to him in a flash and he tries to suppress the shudder that runs through him as he remembers his mother’s tales and warnings. Trying to push aside the sense of foreboding, Merlin follows the urge deeper, passed the stone walls.
The crunch of leaves under his trainers becomes too harsh and the wind suddenly becomes frigid as it pushes his hair back. Merlin tries to focus on feeling the sensation tethering him along, willing it to stay strong and lively inside him. Somewhere inside he notices the different structures that begin to clutter the area all around him, becoming more numerous the further he interlopes. He doesn’t want to think about what the arrangements mean but his heart is suddenly in his throat and impossible to swallow around.
The pull ceases.
Merlin begins to shake, the rattle running through his spine and into his limbs, which now feel achingly cold. His ribs hurt and he can’t breathe. His legs give out and he’s on his knees, hands fisting into damp autumn soil and bits of leaves. He heaves a sob and frantically begins to uncover what is hidden beyond the blanket of reds, oranges and browns. The hollow of his eyes hurt and he squeezes them shut as he let’s out a devastated cry.
He shouldn’t have stayed away! He should have been there from the moment he had first felt the pull nearly 16 years ago. This couldn’t happen. This couldn’t be the end, there hadn’t even been a beginning! Hundreds of years of waiting and longing and his only reason for living gone, left nothing but stone fixed in the earth. Merlin opens his eyes and affirms the truth that he knows lay before him.
Arthur Parsons
12.03.1995 - 08.10.2010
Beloved Son
Pressures of This World Too Great
May He Find Peace In the Next
Merlin curls onto his side and waits till the tears cease. He runs his fingers over the cold stone, bits of wet soil sticking to the tips as he traces out the name and dates. He’d been so insanely pleased that March morning - that morning that felt closer to yesterday than nearly two decades ago. And, he knows the very moment when this happened. Remembers the way he startled awake due to the strange connection he held with his charge. He knows Arthur must have been so inexplicably sad and alone... so like how he himself feels now.
And, he doesn’t know which hurts worse - losing Arthur after spending a short lifetime together or knowing that he’d lost the only chance of ever having his lover back.
- - -
1) Est-ce que je vous connais? - the man is basically asking 'do I know you?'
2) Merlin refers to the bird as a 'bran' because bran is Old Welsh for raven.
Please correct me on both of these points if I'm incorrect. :)