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wrennetteTitle: Five Times Merlin saved Arthur, and Once...
Fandom: Merlin (BBC)
Pairing: none
Rating: PG
Summary: Saving Arthur just became one more thing he did, until he didn't.
Notes: Future fic. Includes character death and spoilers through "The Beginning of the End." In the legends, the Lady of the Lake has three names, Nimue, Niniane, and Vivian. Since I want to keep Nimue as the bad guy and have separate people to be Vivian the good guy who gives Arthur Excalibur and the enchantress who traps Merlin, I am calling the third Niniane. Think of her as Nimue's slightly less evil but still pretty nasty cousin or something. Also - angst. Actually, make that Angst. With a capital 'A'.
The first time he saved Arthur's life, it was instinct mostly. Instinct, and timing, and this thing he has where he hates to see people hurt, even if they are prats.
The second time, he was a little proud of. He had found the shield, learned it's secret, and ultimately proven his accusation correct. Not that there was anyone he could brag about it to. Magic was still, at that point highly illegal, and he was a highly disposable servant.
The third time, he had Lancelot's help. He didn't really count the Afanc, because although it was dangerous, it wasn't really after Arthur. It was mostly just mindless evil, a pawn in Nimue's dangerous game. He was less proud of that, because he had generally acted like a damsel in distress during his first meeting with Lancelot, and like a mooning maid for the duration of his brief stay in Camelot. It was a bit embarrassing looking back.
The fourth time, well, he wasn't really thinking the fourth time either. The pretty girl had those eyes, big and full of concern, and he sort of just fell right in; hook, line and sinker. Of course, it ended up that the poison was likely meant for him all along, since she was an evil sorceress out to destroy the Pendragon line and so on, but at the time, he hadn't known that. He had simply acted, his big mouth running away with him before his mind could even fully process the ideas of "poison," "bad," and "don't drink".
The fifth time he was rather proud of as well. Granted, it was partially his fault Arthur was with Sofia so much to start with. And he probably ought to have figured out rather more quickly that Arthur had been bewitched. But when push came to shove, he had figured out the secret of Avalon through his own spying, and he had pulled Arthur back to the shore in time. It definitely could have been easier. A lot easier. But it had worked out, Sofia and her father were dead, and Arthur was not. That was rather the most important bit in his mind.
After the tenth or so time, Merlin sort of stopped counting. Saving Arthur just became one more thing he did, along with sorting the Prince's clothes, polishing his armour, and covering for him when he would rather be chasing skirts than attending to government business.
That all changed of course. He woke up one morning trapped, no way out, his magic siphoned away. His memories of the past few weeks were hazy, but he remembered Niniane, her big luminous eyes, and it was the same damn trick that Nimue had pulled with the poison in the chalice back when he was little more than a boy. He groaned weakly and struggled to rise. His body was weak, and the cavern seemed to swim around him. There was no trace of anyone else, and he wandered, stumbling in the dark for a long time before giving up. There was no way to the surface. No way up into the light. No way back to Arthur.
Slowly his strength returned, and with it, the last vestiges of his magic. He tried to get out then. It didn't work. He was well and truly trapped. With a sigh and and the resignation of one who knew when he was well and beat, he set about nurturing that tiny ember of magic that burned in him. He waited, and slowly, slowly that weak ember grew into a small flame. Not strong enough that he could do anything useful, like get out of the damnable cave, but it was something. And he was alive, so there was that. He passed the days, and then the months and years, inventing new spells and improving old ones. Many of them he didn't have the strength to try, but he was fairly certain that his magic would eventually return. He just had to wait long enough.
Years passed, and then decades. He became very good at scrying, watching over Camelot and Arthur even though he couldn't do anything. He watched as the good King he had known isolated himself emotionally, and yet managed to become a great King, leader of all the Britons. He watched as Arthur married Gwen, although the love between them was platonic, familial at best. He watched as Morgana's Sight drew her deeper and deeper, until she retired completely from the world of mortals, taking refuge in the Summerlands. He watched as Mordred insinuated himself into the court as magician and advisor. He watched, and he could do nothing be scream futilely at the smooth surface of the pool as Mordred's blade pierced Arthur's flesh.
In the end, he could only watch in horror. Arthur fell, as all men eventually so. The long ago words of the dragon surfaced in his mind, as clearly as if the beast were speaking right behind him. He ought to have killed the boy when he had the chance. But then, everything was always clear in hindsight. There were so many things he regretted leaving undone. He reached out, carefully letting the tips of his fingers disturb the surface of the pool.
"Arthur," he sobbed, voice roughened from long disuse. The young Knight at Arthur's side looked up, and on the field of battle, rain fell as thick and fast as Merlin's tears.
"Arthur," he cried again, and this time, it was Arthur who looked up. The dying King spoke, and the Knight rose slowly, Excalibur in his hands. Merlin watched blearily. It was the end then. Arthur would not willingly part with Excalibur until he knew there was no chance. Merlin sobbed, his entire body shaking with sorrow and not a little bit of anger. The sound of his violent tears filled the echoing cavern, a symphony of loss. Despite that, despite his world being narrowed to the vision of Arthur bleeding on the field of battle, he felt her presence the moment she appeared. Her hand rested cold as ice between his shoulder blades, and he stilled completely, as if frozen in place.
"You knew this day would come," she chided, and he nodded.
"I thought I would be with him," he said brokenly, and he did not look up at her, did not see her once familiar smile, but he knew she was smiling.
"You will be," she said, and then she walked past him, into the deep black pool. When she was in to her waist, she turned back, smiling that tremulous smile that was fear and sorrow and joy all at once. She held out her slim pale hand, perfect as an ivory carving, and he coughed and choked back his tears, wiping snot from his dripping nose as he stood. He waded into the freezing water, and placed his hand in hers.
"Lead the way, Lady Morgana".
Fandom: Merlin (BBC)
Pairing: none
Rating: PG
Summary: Saving Arthur just became one more thing he did, until he didn't.
Notes: Future fic. Includes character death and spoilers through "The Beginning of the End." In the legends, the Lady of the Lake has three names, Nimue, Niniane, and Vivian. Since I want to keep Nimue as the bad guy and have separate people to be Vivian the good guy who gives Arthur Excalibur and the enchantress who traps Merlin, I am calling the third Niniane. Think of her as Nimue's slightly less evil but still pretty nasty cousin or something. Also - angst. Actually, make that Angst. With a capital 'A'.
The first time he saved Arthur's life, it was instinct mostly. Instinct, and timing, and this thing he has where he hates to see people hurt, even if they are prats.
The second time, he was a little proud of. He had found the shield, learned it's secret, and ultimately proven his accusation correct. Not that there was anyone he could brag about it to. Magic was still, at that point highly illegal, and he was a highly disposable servant.
The third time, he had Lancelot's help. He didn't really count the Afanc, because although it was dangerous, it wasn't really after Arthur. It was mostly just mindless evil, a pawn in Nimue's dangerous game. He was less proud of that, because he had generally acted like a damsel in distress during his first meeting with Lancelot, and like a mooning maid for the duration of his brief stay in Camelot. It was a bit embarrassing looking back.
The fourth time, well, he wasn't really thinking the fourth time either. The pretty girl had those eyes, big and full of concern, and he sort of just fell right in; hook, line and sinker. Of course, it ended up that the poison was likely meant for him all along, since she was an evil sorceress out to destroy the Pendragon line and so on, but at the time, he hadn't known that. He had simply acted, his big mouth running away with him before his mind could even fully process the ideas of "poison," "bad," and "don't drink".
The fifth time he was rather proud of as well. Granted, it was partially his fault Arthur was with Sofia so much to start with. And he probably ought to have figured out rather more quickly that Arthur had been bewitched. But when push came to shove, he had figured out the secret of Avalon through his own spying, and he had pulled Arthur back to the shore in time. It definitely could have been easier. A lot easier. But it had worked out, Sofia and her father were dead, and Arthur was not. That was rather the most important bit in his mind.
After the tenth or so time, Merlin sort of stopped counting. Saving Arthur just became one more thing he did, along with sorting the Prince's clothes, polishing his armour, and covering for him when he would rather be chasing skirts than attending to government business.
That all changed of course. He woke up one morning trapped, no way out, his magic siphoned away. His memories of the past few weeks were hazy, but he remembered Niniane, her big luminous eyes, and it was the same damn trick that Nimue had pulled with the poison in the chalice back when he was little more than a boy. He groaned weakly and struggled to rise. His body was weak, and the cavern seemed to swim around him. There was no trace of anyone else, and he wandered, stumbling in the dark for a long time before giving up. There was no way to the surface. No way up into the light. No way back to Arthur.
Slowly his strength returned, and with it, the last vestiges of his magic. He tried to get out then. It didn't work. He was well and truly trapped. With a sigh and and the resignation of one who knew when he was well and beat, he set about nurturing that tiny ember of magic that burned in him. He waited, and slowly, slowly that weak ember grew into a small flame. Not strong enough that he could do anything useful, like get out of the damnable cave, but it was something. And he was alive, so there was that. He passed the days, and then the months and years, inventing new spells and improving old ones. Many of them he didn't have the strength to try, but he was fairly certain that his magic would eventually return. He just had to wait long enough.
Years passed, and then decades. He became very good at scrying, watching over Camelot and Arthur even though he couldn't do anything. He watched as the good King he had known isolated himself emotionally, and yet managed to become a great King, leader of all the Britons. He watched as Arthur married Gwen, although the love between them was platonic, familial at best. He watched as Morgana's Sight drew her deeper and deeper, until she retired completely from the world of mortals, taking refuge in the Summerlands. He watched as Mordred insinuated himself into the court as magician and advisor. He watched, and he could do nothing be scream futilely at the smooth surface of the pool as Mordred's blade pierced Arthur's flesh.
In the end, he could only watch in horror. Arthur fell, as all men eventually so. The long ago words of the dragon surfaced in his mind, as clearly as if the beast were speaking right behind him. He ought to have killed the boy when he had the chance. But then, everything was always clear in hindsight. There were so many things he regretted leaving undone. He reached out, carefully letting the tips of his fingers disturb the surface of the pool.
"Arthur," he sobbed, voice roughened from long disuse. The young Knight at Arthur's side looked up, and on the field of battle, rain fell as thick and fast as Merlin's tears.
"Arthur," he cried again, and this time, it was Arthur who looked up. The dying King spoke, and the Knight rose slowly, Excalibur in his hands. Merlin watched blearily. It was the end then. Arthur would not willingly part with Excalibur until he knew there was no chance. Merlin sobbed, his entire body shaking with sorrow and not a little bit of anger. The sound of his violent tears filled the echoing cavern, a symphony of loss. Despite that, despite his world being narrowed to the vision of Arthur bleeding on the field of battle, he felt her presence the moment she appeared. Her hand rested cold as ice between his shoulder blades, and he stilled completely, as if frozen in place.
"You knew this day would come," she chided, and he nodded.
"I thought I would be with him," he said brokenly, and he did not look up at her, did not see her once familiar smile, but he knew she was smiling.
"You will be," she said, and then she walked past him, into the deep black pool. When she was in to her waist, she turned back, smiling that tremulous smile that was fear and sorrow and joy all at once. She held out her slim pale hand, perfect as an ivory carving, and he coughed and choked back his tears, wiping snot from his dripping nose as he stood. He waded into the freezing water, and placed his hand in hers.
"Lead the way, Lady Morgana".
