Merlin fic: Sweet Dreams Fly (PART TWO)
Feb. 18th, 2009 04:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
themegalooREAD PREVIOUS ENTRY FIRST. This will not make sense otherwise.
[caesura]
At least not at first. Or second. Or third. And after that, Merlin sort of lost count and just started to catalogue glimpses, waiting for the day when he’d wake up again and be the Future King.
After all, you can’t argue with destiny. You might get eaten by a dragon, and wouldn’t that be unpleasant.
--
Sometimes Merlin was young when he saw Arthur again. He was young and beautiful and…wearing a dress once. It wasn’t his fault and if Arthur ever happened to remember it (someday, hopefully, maybe), Merlin felt entirely entitled to throw things. Rotten fruit, preferably. Revenge was best served cold, after all. Very, very cold in this case.
He just rather liked food (though he could, technically, live without it. He’d tried once, it hadn’t been pleasant) and acting wasn’t so bad. He’d gotten better at it—he’d had a couple centuries of pretending that he didn’t cyclically get younger and older and consistently Not Die, after all. And that Will Shakespeare fellow wasn’t so bad, really. When he wasn’t putting him in dresses and telling him he had lovely facial features for the part.
Arthur just had to show up the night he was playing Portia. Couldn’t have come on a Puck night.
Complete and utter prat.
--
Merlin liked writers. They had good imaginations and didn’t tend to mind when he got sulky and drank himself stupid. Which really didn’t take much. Still. He probably should have drank a bit less French wine back in the 1100’s, he’d somehow gotten Arthur painted as a lazy cuckold and he wasn’t going to like that much when he started remembering things again.
Regardless, after the dress incident, he’d decided to try and sulk a bit less and pay more attention. Didn’t want to be caught without his trousers again.
Not like that, at least.
--
There had been truly a ridiculous number of incarnations of Arthurs at this point. Centuries worth. And every time, Merlin tried to make sure he showed up at least once, to see if maybe, possibly, this time was the time. It never had been. He’d gotten good at scrying too. It was a lot easier than travelling to all the places throughout the British Isles Arthur’d been born. Though he did travel quite a lot. Side effect of growing forwards and backwards, after all. Once you started going backwards, it was a new place and a new name every few years. Too suspicious otherwise.
--
He was old this time. The last Arthur had gotten himself killed in a duel in England, somewhere. He hadn’t been there and had promptly broken the crystal ball Morgana had given him about a century before (she’d been telling fortunes from behind a gauzy veil and had laughed at him—apparently he wasn’t the only one to endure, though she seemed even less human than she had before Arthur’s first death—but she still helped him. He wasn’t sure if she actually recognized him or not, it was hard to tell with her). Ever since, he’d been relying on a silver bowl filled with water. It passed as a very nice punch bowl, otherwise. The ball was a bit circumspect anyhow.
Of course, he hadn’t used it much lately because spying on Arthur as a child just made him feel far too much like a pedophile.
So it came as a bit of a surprise when he ran into him one afternoon. He was in Ireland now, things were getting interesting there. It was 1797 and tempers were rising. England—once Albion—was having a bit of trouble in keeping peace these days. He didn’t dream the future, but even he could taste the blood on the land while he slept. It was coming, and soon.
He liked Ireland. They had good stories. And he liked the bardic ways. Telling stories was fun, though of course that was getting harder in recent centuries. But there wasn’t much else he could do during the old cycles. Besides, people liked stories from old men. They assumed they were wise. They never really knew what they were getting from Merlin, though.
“Arthur!” he’d said, surprised to see someone who definitely belonged in England wandering around in Ireland.
The man, who was once Arthur, frowned. “It’s Edward.” Merlin cursed, mentally of course. Not this time, then. “Do I know you?” Arthur-but-not asked.
It was so clearly him, though. The gap in his teeth, the facial expressions, the attitude. It was like being young again. The first time, that is.
“No,” he said, finally. He stretched, cracking his back. This was his least favorite part of the cycle. He disliked being so sore all the time. “You live here?”
Arthur (but not) nodded. “It’s my father’s land, been in the family for generations.”
“Strange to see someone actually living here, it’s been empty for a while.”
Arthur (it was just easier to think of him as Arthur) grinned, slightly. Oh, how that took him back! It was a perfect sort of torture. “My mother insisted. Father wants to send me back to England for schooling, though. He says the Irish are heathens and will corrupt me.”
Merlin laughed. “Don’t worry, in the end you’ll always be your own man. You always are. If you want to stay, that’s what you’ll do.”
That got him a strange look. Damn. He had alluded to the prior Arthurs. That never did bode well.
“Difficult times are coming,” he said after a long moment of strained silence, “take care of yourself.”
And then, he left. He couldn’t stay and get attached, it was too hard to watch him die time and time again. Because he always would, and Merlin would always outlive him, alone.
The blood did come, but Arthur endured. This time. It wasn’t always so.
--
Writers. Writers were fun. After the encounter with Arthur in Ireland, he moved back to England. He was in a young phase again and spent time with a poet or two. Wine was had, stories were told, and a series of poems about Arthurian legend started cropping up again. That was just typical. (Though he had to admit, for refusing to believe the truth when it was straing him in the face and drinking his wine and following all the old messed up hearsay stories of old, Tennyson wasn’t half bad.)
--
He swore off wine again. You would think that being over a thousand years old, he might have acquired a bit of tolerance. He decided that maybe alcohol and magic didn’t mix very well.
--
A century later and he decided that mind-altering substances in general didn’t mix well with magic. Especially not his. But a bloke named Tolkien ended up with some pretty interesting ideas on the subject after running into him. The rest, as they say, is history.
Sort of.
--
He did not, however, frequent any coffee shops in Scotland and as such could not be blamed for that other weird-looking, black-haired wizard. Who was entirely fictional. And used a wand. Merlin had no need to compensate like that. It was definitely not his fault. At all.
No, really.
--
Maybe he should swear off writers too. They were going to get him in trouble one day. When Arthur awoke. Hopefully it would be soon. He was getting tired of waiting.
--
And then, one day, something in him changed. He was at a young point. About the same age as he'd been when he met Arthur the first time. Something in him just snapped as he was walking through London. He would always have a fondness for cities. They were big. Anonymous. A good place to hide in plain sight.
But when that Something snapped, he was distracted. He walked right into a sturdy chest, and really, who stops in the middle of the street?
And then, oh then. “You’re late, Merlin.”
Arthur.
There were many things Merlin would have liked to have said. Perhaps flown into a rage about how he was not late, Arthur was. By several centuries at that. But all he managed was a simple “Prat” before he was in his arms in the middle of a London street and he didn’t care.
Because he knew what that Something was now.
This time, when Arthur grew old and passed, Merlin would go with him.
[fin]
[caesura]
At least not at first. Or second. Or third. And after that, Merlin sort of lost count and just started to catalogue glimpses, waiting for the day when he’d wake up again and be the Future King.
After all, you can’t argue with destiny. You might get eaten by a dragon, and wouldn’t that be unpleasant.
--
Sometimes Merlin was young when he saw Arthur again. He was young and beautiful and…wearing a dress once. It wasn’t his fault and if Arthur ever happened to remember it (someday, hopefully, maybe), Merlin felt entirely entitled to throw things. Rotten fruit, preferably. Revenge was best served cold, after all. Very, very cold in this case.
He just rather liked food (though he could, technically, live without it. He’d tried once, it hadn’t been pleasant) and acting wasn’t so bad. He’d gotten better at it—he’d had a couple centuries of pretending that he didn’t cyclically get younger and older and consistently Not Die, after all. And that Will Shakespeare fellow wasn’t so bad, really. When he wasn’t putting him in dresses and telling him he had lovely facial features for the part.
Arthur just had to show up the night he was playing Portia. Couldn’t have come on a Puck night.
Complete and utter prat.
--
Merlin liked writers. They had good imaginations and didn’t tend to mind when he got sulky and drank himself stupid. Which really didn’t take much. Still. He probably should have drank a bit less French wine back in the 1100’s, he’d somehow gotten Arthur painted as a lazy cuckold and he wasn’t going to like that much when he started remembering things again.
Regardless, after the dress incident, he’d decided to try and sulk a bit less and pay more attention. Didn’t want to be caught without his trousers again.
Not like that, at least.
--
There had been truly a ridiculous number of incarnations of Arthurs at this point. Centuries worth. And every time, Merlin tried to make sure he showed up at least once, to see if maybe, possibly, this time was the time. It never had been. He’d gotten good at scrying too. It was a lot easier than travelling to all the places throughout the British Isles Arthur’d been born. Though he did travel quite a lot. Side effect of growing forwards and backwards, after all. Once you started going backwards, it was a new place and a new name every few years. Too suspicious otherwise.
--
He was old this time. The last Arthur had gotten himself killed in a duel in England, somewhere. He hadn’t been there and had promptly broken the crystal ball Morgana had given him about a century before (she’d been telling fortunes from behind a gauzy veil and had laughed at him—apparently he wasn’t the only one to endure, though she seemed even less human than she had before Arthur’s first death—but she still helped him. He wasn’t sure if she actually recognized him or not, it was hard to tell with her). Ever since, he’d been relying on a silver bowl filled with water. It passed as a very nice punch bowl, otherwise. The ball was a bit circumspect anyhow.
Of course, he hadn’t used it much lately because spying on Arthur as a child just made him feel far too much like a pedophile.
So it came as a bit of a surprise when he ran into him one afternoon. He was in Ireland now, things were getting interesting there. It was 1797 and tempers were rising. England—once Albion—was having a bit of trouble in keeping peace these days. He didn’t dream the future, but even he could taste the blood on the land while he slept. It was coming, and soon.
He liked Ireland. They had good stories. And he liked the bardic ways. Telling stories was fun, though of course that was getting harder in recent centuries. But there wasn’t much else he could do during the old cycles. Besides, people liked stories from old men. They assumed they were wise. They never really knew what they were getting from Merlin, though.
“Arthur!” he’d said, surprised to see someone who definitely belonged in England wandering around in Ireland.
The man, who was once Arthur, frowned. “It’s Edward.” Merlin cursed, mentally of course. Not this time, then. “Do I know you?” Arthur-but-not asked.
It was so clearly him, though. The gap in his teeth, the facial expressions, the attitude. It was like being young again. The first time, that is.
“No,” he said, finally. He stretched, cracking his back. This was his least favorite part of the cycle. He disliked being so sore all the time. “You live here?”
Arthur (but not) nodded. “It’s my father’s land, been in the family for generations.”
“Strange to see someone actually living here, it’s been empty for a while.”
Arthur (it was just easier to think of him as Arthur) grinned, slightly. Oh, how that took him back! It was a perfect sort of torture. “My mother insisted. Father wants to send me back to England for schooling, though. He says the Irish are heathens and will corrupt me.”
Merlin laughed. “Don’t worry, in the end you’ll always be your own man. You always are. If you want to stay, that’s what you’ll do.”
That got him a strange look. Damn. He had alluded to the prior Arthurs. That never did bode well.
“Difficult times are coming,” he said after a long moment of strained silence, “take care of yourself.”
And then, he left. He couldn’t stay and get attached, it was too hard to watch him die time and time again. Because he always would, and Merlin would always outlive him, alone.
The blood did come, but Arthur endured. This time. It wasn’t always so.
--
Writers. Writers were fun. After the encounter with Arthur in Ireland, he moved back to England. He was in a young phase again and spent time with a poet or two. Wine was had, stories were told, and a series of poems about Arthurian legend started cropping up again. That was just typical. (Though he had to admit, for refusing to believe the truth when it was straing him in the face and drinking his wine and following all the old messed up hearsay stories of old, Tennyson wasn’t half bad.)
--
He swore off wine again. You would think that being over a thousand years old, he might have acquired a bit of tolerance. He decided that maybe alcohol and magic didn’t mix very well.
--
A century later and he decided that mind-altering substances in general didn’t mix well with magic. Especially not his. But a bloke named Tolkien ended up with some pretty interesting ideas on the subject after running into him. The rest, as they say, is history.
Sort of.
--
He did not, however, frequent any coffee shops in Scotland and as such could not be blamed for that other weird-looking, black-haired wizard. Who was entirely fictional. And used a wand. Merlin had no need to compensate like that. It was definitely not his fault. At all.
No, really.
--
Maybe he should swear off writers too. They were going to get him in trouble one day. When Arthur awoke. Hopefully it would be soon. He was getting tired of waiting.
--
And then, one day, something in him changed. He was at a young point. About the same age as he'd been when he met Arthur the first time. Something in him just snapped as he was walking through London. He would always have a fondness for cities. They were big. Anonymous. A good place to hide in plain sight.
But when that Something snapped, he was distracted. He walked right into a sturdy chest, and really, who stops in the middle of the street?
And then, oh then. “You’re late, Merlin.”
Arthur.
There were many things Merlin would have liked to have said. Perhaps flown into a rage about how he was not late, Arthur was. By several centuries at that. But all he managed was a simple “Prat” before he was in his arms in the middle of a London street and he didn’t care.
Because he knew what that Something was now.
This time, when Arthur grew old and passed, Merlin would go with him.
[fin]
