auntiemeesh (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
auntiemeesh) wrote2009-12-02 09:35 pm
auntiemeesh) wrote2009-12-02 09:35 pm
Entry tags:
In which there is fic
I come bearing fic. Untitled Merlin fic. Untitled because I am lame and titles are hard to think of. Angsty, a bit of a dark-fic, mostly PG rated, maybe a moment of R for violence, character death. Short, about 1250 words. Unbetaed, so if you see any egregious errors, feel free to point and laugh.
A/N I: This is about as true to the Arthurian legends as the show, in that the places and people mentioned in the fic exist in both the show and the legends, but I extrapolate from the show and adapt from the legends as I see fit.
A/N II: This is a bit of a wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey fic, moving back and forth through time, but it should all be marked fairly clearly as to what is happening when.
Untitled
Now
Merlin settled Arthur gently into the bottom of the boat and gave a wordless command. He sat silent and unmoving as the raft floated gently through the mist to the Isle of the Blessed. “Here we are, then,” he muttered as the raft glided the last few feet to the grassy sward inside the stone ramparts. He grunted involuntarily as he picked Arthur up. The man seemed heavier in death than he ever had in life. “You’re not really dead, you know,” Merlin continued to speak out loud. “I mean, you’re not exactly alive, true, but I froze you before you died, so technically speaking, you’re just frozen, not dead.” Not that this made Merlin feel any better. Hefting his burden, he carried Arthur to the large stone slab positioned in the middle of the grassy space, exactly as he remembered it from his youth. “I’ll be back for you, I promise.” After a moment spent fussing with Arthur’s robes, crown and sword, making sure everything was neat and in place, Merlin lowered his head, dropped his hands to his sides and turned away. There was nothing more he could do here.
Two weeks later
Merlin hadn’t slept more than an hour or two at a time for the past two weeks, but he barely noticed the exhaustion. It had taken time to track down all the elements needed for the spell, more a complicated ritual really, but everything was ready now. He just needed to determine the best moment to pick. He wouldn’t have much time, only minutes, maybe an hour if he’d made the elixir potent enough, but it would have to do. Go back, change one thing, and make sure that Arthur never encountered the druid boy, Mordred. Then Mordred would never kill him.
Although, perhaps it would be better to do something about the sword. It was Arthur’s own sword, Excalibur, that Mordred used in the battle at Camlann. His own sword, that Merlin created, that killed him. If only Merlin never forged the blade in the dragon’s breath, then Mordred could not have wrested it away from Arthur.
But then, Arthur would never have allowed Mordred to steal the sword if he hadn’t been so distracted by his grief and anger over the dual betrayals of Gwen and Lancelot. That had been brewing for years, but it all stemmed from Merlin bringing Lancelot to Camelot after the griffin attack. If Merlin had just said ‘thanks, bye’, there would be no betrayal, no distraction, Mordred would never get the sword and Arthur wouldn’t be lying on a slab of rock, frozen in time at the point of death.
Merlin agonized over his choices. He’d thought about almost nothing else for the past two weeks but hesitated. There would be no second chances here. Whichever moment he chose would change history in ways he could never predict. He knew this and was willing to risk whatever consequences might come. He understood these things much more clearly than he had as a young man, trying once before to bargain for Arthur’s life.
There was no point in going over things again. He knew what to do, and he had already made his decision. Taking a deep breath, he went about setting up the spell, making sure each element was precisely in place before picking up the vial of elixir. Without hesitation, he tilted his head back and quaffed the liquid in one go.
Twenty-three years ago
Merlin staggered in confusion, seeing the street in front of him as if through two pairs of eyes. After a brief, disorienting moment, everything settled, but he faced the street with a new certainty of what he must do. He blinked and turned to look for the source of the voice that was calling to him in his mind, sounding so young and scared. Spying the child huddled in the street, he went still. Then, taking a deep breath and telling himself this was the only way, he called out to the guards. “Here. He’s over here.” Merlin stood back and looked away as the men roughly dragged the boy off, unable to face the terror and betrayal writ across Mordred’s face. And the next day, when the boy was publicly executed, Merlin stayed in bed and wept, no longer able to explain even to himself why he’d done what he did. It had been so clear at the time, the knowledge that this child must die if Arthur were to live, but now it all seemed fuzzy and wrong. Why had he been so certain that this child’s fate was linked to Arthur’s? How could he have been so callous as to turn a helpless child over to Uther’s merciless need? He didn’t think he would ever be able to bear the weight of his shame.
That was the beginning, he thought. The moment when he betrayed that child was the moment he also betrayed Arthur and the needs of the land. Arthur had argued with his father, pleading that the boy be exiled rather than killed, and his father had treated him harshly as a result. The next time Uther had a sorcerer put to death, Arthur made little fuss, and the time after that, he was the one tracking down the sorcerer. By the time Uther died, ten years later, Arthur Pendragon had become even more severe in his hatred of magic than his father had ever been. There would be no return of magic to Camelot, and there would be no united Albion. Merlin stayed as long as he could, but in the end he was forced to flee when a Witchfinder came to the castle. He spent the next decade trying to find a way to fix things, until he came upon a complex spell that would allow him to go back, change that one moment when everything went wrong. Save the druid boy, Arthur and the fate of all Albion with one life-altering whisper.
Now, again
Merlin screamed as the sword entered Arthur’s side, Mordred’s face twisted into a sick parody of a grin as he twisted the blade. “Camelot and all of Albion are mine, now!” the druid shouted as Arthur slumped to the ground.
It was too late, far too late, but Merlin charged over the field, dodging the swinging swords of combatants, jumping over the bodies of the fallen, reaching Arthur bare seconds after he fell. With barely a glance, Merlin summoned his power and raised a sword behind Mordred, running the other man through before he knew what was happening or could summon his own magic to defend himself. Without allowing himself to think about what he’d just done, he turned to Arthur, lying on the ground with eyes wide in pain, blood fast pooling at his side.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll make this right. I promise I won’t let this be the end, I’ll find a way to fix this.” As he spoke, Merlin raised a hand over Arthur’s chest, heaving with pain and the effort of drawing just one more breath, and let the magic fill him. With a whispered incantation, he slowed everything down, stopping time in a tight bubble about his king. Arthur was technically still alive, and as long as the spell held, he would never die. Reaching out, he lifted Arthur in his arms and made his way off the field of battle, beginning the long trek to the Isle of the Blessed.
A/N I: This is about as true to the Arthurian legends as the show, in that the places and people mentioned in the fic exist in both the show and the legends, but I extrapolate from the show and adapt from the legends as I see fit.
A/N II: This is a bit of a wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey fic, moving back and forth through time, but it should all be marked fairly clearly as to what is happening when.
Untitled
Now
Merlin settled Arthur gently into the bottom of the boat and gave a wordless command. He sat silent and unmoving as the raft floated gently through the mist to the Isle of the Blessed. “Here we are, then,” he muttered as the raft glided the last few feet to the grassy sward inside the stone ramparts. He grunted involuntarily as he picked Arthur up. The man seemed heavier in death than he ever had in life. “You’re not really dead, you know,” Merlin continued to speak out loud. “I mean, you’re not exactly alive, true, but I froze you before you died, so technically speaking, you’re just frozen, not dead.” Not that this made Merlin feel any better. Hefting his burden, he carried Arthur to the large stone slab positioned in the middle of the grassy space, exactly as he remembered it from his youth. “I’ll be back for you, I promise.” After a moment spent fussing with Arthur’s robes, crown and sword, making sure everything was neat and in place, Merlin lowered his head, dropped his hands to his sides and turned away. There was nothing more he could do here.
Two weeks later
Merlin hadn’t slept more than an hour or two at a time for the past two weeks, but he barely noticed the exhaustion. It had taken time to track down all the elements needed for the spell, more a complicated ritual really, but everything was ready now. He just needed to determine the best moment to pick. He wouldn’t have much time, only minutes, maybe an hour if he’d made the elixir potent enough, but it would have to do. Go back, change one thing, and make sure that Arthur never encountered the druid boy, Mordred. Then Mordred would never kill him.
Although, perhaps it would be better to do something about the sword. It was Arthur’s own sword, Excalibur, that Mordred used in the battle at Camlann. His own sword, that Merlin created, that killed him. If only Merlin never forged the blade in the dragon’s breath, then Mordred could not have wrested it away from Arthur.
But then, Arthur would never have allowed Mordred to steal the sword if he hadn’t been so distracted by his grief and anger over the dual betrayals of Gwen and Lancelot. That had been brewing for years, but it all stemmed from Merlin bringing Lancelot to Camelot after the griffin attack. If Merlin had just said ‘thanks, bye’, there would be no betrayal, no distraction, Mordred would never get the sword and Arthur wouldn’t be lying on a slab of rock, frozen in time at the point of death.
Merlin agonized over his choices. He’d thought about almost nothing else for the past two weeks but hesitated. There would be no second chances here. Whichever moment he chose would change history in ways he could never predict. He knew this and was willing to risk whatever consequences might come. He understood these things much more clearly than he had as a young man, trying once before to bargain for Arthur’s life.
There was no point in going over things again. He knew what to do, and he had already made his decision. Taking a deep breath, he went about setting up the spell, making sure each element was precisely in place before picking up the vial of elixir. Without hesitation, he tilted his head back and quaffed the liquid in one go.
Twenty-three years ago
Merlin staggered in confusion, seeing the street in front of him as if through two pairs of eyes. After a brief, disorienting moment, everything settled, but he faced the street with a new certainty of what he must do. He blinked and turned to look for the source of the voice that was calling to him in his mind, sounding so young and scared. Spying the child huddled in the street, he went still. Then, taking a deep breath and telling himself this was the only way, he called out to the guards. “Here. He’s over here.” Merlin stood back and looked away as the men roughly dragged the boy off, unable to face the terror and betrayal writ across Mordred’s face. And the next day, when the boy was publicly executed, Merlin stayed in bed and wept, no longer able to explain even to himself why he’d done what he did. It had been so clear at the time, the knowledge that this child must die if Arthur were to live, but now it all seemed fuzzy and wrong. Why had he been so certain that this child’s fate was linked to Arthur’s? How could he have been so callous as to turn a helpless child over to Uther’s merciless need? He didn’t think he would ever be able to bear the weight of his shame.
That was the beginning, he thought. The moment when he betrayed that child was the moment he also betrayed Arthur and the needs of the land. Arthur had argued with his father, pleading that the boy be exiled rather than killed, and his father had treated him harshly as a result. The next time Uther had a sorcerer put to death, Arthur made little fuss, and the time after that, he was the one tracking down the sorcerer. By the time Uther died, ten years later, Arthur Pendragon had become even more severe in his hatred of magic than his father had ever been. There would be no return of magic to Camelot, and there would be no united Albion. Merlin stayed as long as he could, but in the end he was forced to flee when a Witchfinder came to the castle. He spent the next decade trying to find a way to fix things, until he came upon a complex spell that would allow him to go back, change that one moment when everything went wrong. Save the druid boy, Arthur and the fate of all Albion with one life-altering whisper.
Now, again
Merlin screamed as the sword entered Arthur’s side, Mordred’s face twisted into a sick parody of a grin as he twisted the blade. “Camelot and all of Albion are mine, now!” the druid shouted as Arthur slumped to the ground.
It was too late, far too late, but Merlin charged over the field, dodging the swinging swords of combatants, jumping over the bodies of the fallen, reaching Arthur bare seconds after he fell. With barely a glance, Merlin summoned his power and raised a sword behind Mordred, running the other man through before he knew what was happening or could summon his own magic to defend himself. Without allowing himself to think about what he’d just done, he turned to Arthur, lying on the ground with eyes wide in pain, blood fast pooling at his side.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll make this right. I promise I won’t let this be the end, I’ll find a way to fix this.” As he spoke, Merlin raised a hand over Arthur’s chest, heaving with pain and the effort of drawing just one more breath, and let the magic fill him. With a whispered incantation, he slowed everything down, stopping time in a tight bubble about his king. Arthur was technically still alive, and as long as the spell held, he would never die. Reaching out, he lifted Arthur in his arms and made his way off the field of battle, beginning the long trek to the Isle of the Blessed.