Fanfic: Merlin | non sum qualis eram
Title: non sum qualis eram
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin, gen
Word Count: ~1600
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
Summary: Even when everything has changed, nothing is different. Life goes on, even if Merlin is a sorcerer.
Note: Written for rubber_glue for winning me in gulf_aid_now.
non sum qualis eram
i am not such as i was
{There is blood. Whose blood? His blood. But no wound - there was a wound, but no longer. It’s gone. Somehow. But the blood stays and he can’t move and - how will he ever trust anyone again?}
Emrys. That is what the sorcerer keeps calling his manservant. At first, Merlin had adamantly denied any ties to that name, but now - now there is a silent recognition of it. And somehow, that hurts Arthur more than the knowledge (the false knowledge, he tells himself) that his father caused his mother’s death.
{How heavy his sword had seemed when he pointed it at his father. Merlin’s frantic voice had begged him to calm, belying everything he truly thought at that moment. They say anger burns, but Arthur had curled up by the fire to fight against the cold.}
Without the blood staining his skin, everything he is trying to disbelieve wouldn’t matter. But even if he could wash it from his skin, the ghost of the ache remains. The sorcerer (which one?) does not seem so petty, so dirty or so greasy as he’s always thought of them. (“But they are masterful in the art of disguise, my son.”) He opens his mouth to demand the sorcerer show his true form, but does not know where to direct his words.
{He wants to fight. Fight against this injustice, this unfairness of life. But what is justice and what is fairness? Who was he to decide anything as powerless as he was? What did his life matter when he had no power? How little he seemed after all.}
The sorcerer - the one that bound him in these chains - addresses him for the first time. His voice is ugly. It is melodic, but it is ugly and has been warped by things that no human should touch. Merlin’s voice isn’t like that, is it? No, it isn’t. It’s softer, and kinder, and stronger, and true.
{“I heard there was someone protecting the Pendragons. Aren’t you lucky, little prince? To have the great and fabled Emrys protect you.” … “Emrys the Warlock. Fool that he is, probably doesn’t even understand what that means, do you, Emrys?” … “Prince Arthur Pendragon, what price would you pay to see your safety?” I will not barter with a sorcerer. “What price would you pay to see the safety of your people?” You will not harm them! “Ah. But what will I get in return for that?”}
And Merlin steps in between them like he has the right to act as Arthur’s shield, like Arthur gave him permission to die for him. This isn’t - this wasn’t - but who was he to say what is right, what is wrong, and what is strange? Suddenly, as sudden as anything can ever be, there is a flash - the chains holding him break and light surges forth and - and all he can take in is the way the world looks. It is a wooded area, painted with autumn. Dead leaves, any color you pleased, strewn about everywhere the eye thought to wander to. The trunks of trees were thick and sturdy with many decades of stories carefully folded in. And the light was golden. How strange a place to choose to trap him. The second sorcerer is gone. There is just him, his manservant, and the choice he must make, the things he must think upon.
{“Warlock. It means you hunt us, your own kind. The fabled Emrys, savior and destroyer of us all. It is why we revere you, despise you. And you do not even know of the extent of what we suffer because the Old Religion has already laid out your golden path. You shall mow us down as surely as you shall try to reach out with your other hand to save us. But you are a plague, Emrys, and you will bring to us with both hands our doom and our demise and after you are through, we shall be no more than a memory upon this earth. That is what you are, Emrys. You will immortalize and glorify the name of your king whilst you will leave your people to fade away to oblivion and allow us to fall - cause it, even - into the very pits of the abyss.”}
There are no words that Arthur can find to say. There is no anger left in him, only despair and disappointment and fear and hope and everything but anything that will make sense to him. It is all so new and so sudden, so unexpected. Merlin does not say anything, and is wise enough in that moment to keep his mouth shut. But Arthur finds himself opening his mouth to ask a question he hasn’t yet thought of, and Merlin looks at him with wild eyes. The gold in them glow and smother the world and his voice is pitched low and anxious when he answers. Arthur has yet to ask the question, but now he has the answer. An answer that means nothing without the question, yet means everything on its own.
{Destiny. It is a silly thing, but it is a force greater than Arthur ever imagined. Destiny. That is what binds Merlin to him, a flimsy little word. What can one word do to end the suffering of his people? Will it hold back the droughts, bring down the gentle rain, still the fierce winds, or turn away Camelot’s enemies? No, it will not. But it will empower him and give him right and reason to conquer all of Albion, so he is told. He shall conquer Albion with the force of a word at his back, steering him, pushing him, guiding him. For want of a word.}
Arthur is unsure of himself as he stands. The weight and eyes of the world are upon him, he feels. It is easy to imagine the trees and the birds and the wind craning their necks and turning an ear to listen more closely to what might happen next, as if the next occurrence will be momentous and grand and where the shifting of history lies. But it seems a ridiculous notion when it is simply defined as him and Merlin and what must be done. Merlin’s eyes are not on him though, and for that Arthur is grateful. He is afraid of those eyes. They burn him.
{His thoughts are going in circles now. He keeps repeating them in hopes that he will find an answer amongst the questions. He does not. So he thinks of Merlin, of everything he knows. There is not much, just the little details and every day in between. Like the day they met, the dagger that grew ever larger as it flew towards him, the dank cell and the flower. They are all just events that do not give much away in terms of emotion. Or do they? Like the day Merlin drank poison for him and Arthur in return drank what he thought was poison. Like the days where his knights leered at his manservant and he put them back in line because damn it, Merlin was thrice times the man they were in terms of morals. All these days show his character, and Merlin’s as well. In between the hours and the minutes of each day, there is the making of them. Their story gives way to their person.}
When the dust has settled from the flurry of his thoughts, Arthur realizes, or relearns, many things. For one, Merlin is still Merlin and will always be Merlin. Another thing is that yes, magic itself is not evil and one can be a sorcerer without being vile. He has just finished a journey of self discovery, he thinks. But there is still the matter of what to do with Merlin and this newly known thing.
{“I would protect you and follow you wherever you went.” “That’s rather … creepy.” “Prat.” “It’s flattering as well, sort of.” “…”}
In the end, they talk. Arthur listens, enraptured by tales that couldn’t possibly be of his life, but they are. And they are all true. He makes jokes because he hates the feeling of gloom in the air. Merlin laughs and smiles back and he knows that they’ll be okay, that a resolution to this problem isn’t difficult to find and they will reach middle ground - but on another day, when he has had proper time to think of every consequence and damn them all in favor of keeping this friendship with Merlin.
{They bide their time. Arthur waits for the sure death of his father, and it happens as uneventfully as possible in eventful times. It is not a perfect thing when he becomes king, but he makes the changes he deems necessary, brings down the laws of Camelot and rebuilds them. His people love him, as surely as they loved him when he was only a prince begging for their rights. War comes as war should, and upon the battlements he gives his speeches and raises Albion’s heraldry. This is his kingdom. And he has built on one word, for one person. Though he may not understand magic, he accepts it, welcomes it, and seeks to learn how to understand such a fickle power. When he faces death and has died, and knows that his time will come again and keeps faith for no other reason but that he trusts Merlin’s word. For now, he shall sleep and rest for what may come again.}