Merlin fic: Sweet Dreams Fly (PART ONE)
Feb. 18th, 2009 04:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
themegalooOkay I caved. I have fic. It's in two parts for aesthetic purposes. This part can stand alone, but part two relies entirely on you having read THIS PART FIRST. Title from a Harry Chapin song.
Title: Sweet Dreams Fly
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
themegaloo
Words: 2,000 (600 + 1,400)
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rated: PG.
Summary/Warnings: AU/Future!fic where Merlin endures and Arthur is the Once and Future King--but not quite as or when expected. Contains some angst, deaths, humor, bad jokes, allusions, Shakespeare, a bit of history and a very bad tolerance for alcohol that just never gets better.
“You’re getting old.”
Arthur glared at the younger man in the reflection. Not that he was actually younger, he just looked that way. And okay, he was starting to act that way too. It was refreshing sometimes, but every time the idiot had to go around pointing out the infirmity of his age, it was anything but refreshing. More like annoying.
“Yes, well, Merlin,” (because that was clearly who it was, he was the only idiot with the lack of self-perseverance necessary in order to insult the king, who could very easily have him beheaded for his insolence. Not that he would. Well, probably not, at least), “we can’t all go around aging backwards like you do. Idiot. Can’t even age properly. Truly the worst excuse for a person, can’t even get chronology right.” And maybe it was a bit petulant and the slightest bit unfair, but Merlin was unflappable when he was in one of these moods.
“You’re just jealous!” Which was, of course, accompanied by the usual cheeky grin of Merlin’s youth. Not that he’d ever really lost it. Bastard.
“I could still beat you black and blue out on the training fields, don’t try my patience!”
“Yeah, well. You’d have to catch me first!”
And it was almost worth the aches the next morning to go haring off around the grounds to prove himself. There wasn’t enough youth in Camelot anymore, at least not in the castle. It was a nice change.
--
Maybe being old wasn’t so bad, really. It was quiet. He didn’t have to go around risking his neck so often anymore. There was peace in Albion, for now at least. He worried about what would happen when he passed. He worried that it would be soon. He didn’t have an heir. Gwen was gone, Lancelot had left just after and had probably gotten himself killed by now (he was a bit reckless still, after all these years—clearly a result of friendship with Merlin). Morgana hardly seemed human anymore. In fact, she probably wasn’t wholly human, if she ever had been. She’d always had that sort of ethereal quality to her and the visions hadn’t really helped matters. She’d gone off long ago, though she showed up for a visit every now and again. Looking exactly the same, but entirely different. Like Merlin.
He still had Merlin. That was enough. There were young knights, good ones. They could manage when he was gone. Merlin would help them.
Merlin, who didn’t look a day older than he had the day they’d met. Except that there were tears in his eyes and that wasn’t right at all. “Don’t be such a girl, Merlin,” is what he tried to say, but it didn’t come out right. Something wasn’t right at all.
“Hey.”
And Merlin was being far too gentle, gentle like those nights so long ago. His hand cupped Arthur’s cragged and wrinkled cheek as he pressed a kiss—oh, so gentle—to a likewise cragged forehead.
And he understood. He was passing. And oh, it was ever so right that those lips he had loved so much—full and soft and smiling, happy, laughing—that they would be the last thing he felt. It was good and proper. To die here, here where he belonged.
And Merlin was smiling, smiling through the tears. Though it made his face red and a bit blotchy. He was beautiful. The same and yet entirely different.
“Come now, that’s enough.”
A smooth, warm thumb ran across his cheekbones.
“You’ve had your fun, my friend.”
He’d remember.
--
He didn’t.
[caesura]
Title: Sweet Dreams Fly
Author:
themegalooWords: 2,000 (600 + 1,400)
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rated: PG.
Summary/Warnings: AU/Future!fic where Merlin endures and Arthur is the Once and Future King--but not quite as or when expected. Contains some angst, deaths, humor, bad jokes, allusions, Shakespeare, a bit of history and a very bad tolerance for alcohol that just never gets better.
“You’re getting old.”
Arthur glared at the younger man in the reflection. Not that he was actually younger, he just looked that way. And okay, he was starting to act that way too. It was refreshing sometimes, but every time the idiot had to go around pointing out the infirmity of his age, it was anything but refreshing. More like annoying.
“Yes, well, Merlin,” (because that was clearly who it was, he was the only idiot with the lack of self-perseverance necessary in order to insult the king, who could very easily have him beheaded for his insolence. Not that he would. Well, probably not, at least), “we can’t all go around aging backwards like you do. Idiot. Can’t even age properly. Truly the worst excuse for a person, can’t even get chronology right.” And maybe it was a bit petulant and the slightest bit unfair, but Merlin was unflappable when he was in one of these moods.
“You’re just jealous!” Which was, of course, accompanied by the usual cheeky grin of Merlin’s youth. Not that he’d ever really lost it. Bastard.
“I could still beat you black and blue out on the training fields, don’t try my patience!”
“Yeah, well. You’d have to catch me first!”
And it was almost worth the aches the next morning to go haring off around the grounds to prove himself. There wasn’t enough youth in Camelot anymore, at least not in the castle. It was a nice change.
--
Maybe being old wasn’t so bad, really. It was quiet. He didn’t have to go around risking his neck so often anymore. There was peace in Albion, for now at least. He worried about what would happen when he passed. He worried that it would be soon. He didn’t have an heir. Gwen was gone, Lancelot had left just after and had probably gotten himself killed by now (he was a bit reckless still, after all these years—clearly a result of friendship with Merlin). Morgana hardly seemed human anymore. In fact, she probably wasn’t wholly human, if she ever had been. She’d always had that sort of ethereal quality to her and the visions hadn’t really helped matters. She’d gone off long ago, though she showed up for a visit every now and again. Looking exactly the same, but entirely different. Like Merlin.
He still had Merlin. That was enough. There were young knights, good ones. They could manage when he was gone. Merlin would help them.
Merlin, who didn’t look a day older than he had the day they’d met. Except that there were tears in his eyes and that wasn’t right at all. “Don’t be such a girl, Merlin,” is what he tried to say, but it didn’t come out right. Something wasn’t right at all.
“Hey.”
And Merlin was being far too gentle, gentle like those nights so long ago. His hand cupped Arthur’s cragged and wrinkled cheek as he pressed a kiss—oh, so gentle—to a likewise cragged forehead.
And he understood. He was passing. And oh, it was ever so right that those lips he had loved so much—full and soft and smiling, happy, laughing—that they would be the last thing he felt. It was good and proper. To die here, here where he belonged.
And Merlin was smiling, smiling through the tears. Though it made his face red and a bit blotchy. He was beautiful. The same and yet entirely different.
“Come now, that’s enough.”
A smooth, warm thumb ran across his cheekbones.
“You’ve had your fun, my friend.”
He’d remember.
--
He didn’t.
[caesura]
