Talking to myself about Merlin

Do you still believe you're the hero of your story?

Merlin was standing on the balcony when he felt it. He had left the party for a brief swig of fresh air, and had just been about to turn away from the inky view when the stars began to blink and the ground began to sputter. He knew instantly that only he could feel it, that the others inside were oblivious to this monumental shift in the fabric of the earth. It was finally time.

Merlin had been enjoying the party, certainly. Marcine had invited him – it was her older sister’s birthday, and she didn’t really want to make the journey south alone, and she’d never seen Merlin drunk after all, so would he please come with her – and Merlin had surprised himself, firstly by saying yes, and secondly by having a rather good time at said party. In the end, he did not get drunk, and in fact was very likely the most sober person in attendance, but if anything, the strange clarity only increased his enjoyment of the whole affair. Humans were a funny species, garnering so much joy from dancing around senseless in a shoddily-decorated kitchen, or playing silly games they would struggle to remember the following morning. Merlin remembered a time when he, too, had been like them. It was strangely comforting to pretend, just for one night, that he still was like that. He danced in the kitchen with them, holding the speaker aloft when his song came on; joined in with their game of spin the bottle, in which he planted a firm kiss on Marcine’s sister’s surprised lips; and mixed cocktails on the kitchen island with a man whose name he did not know, but whose smile was infectious.

It was late into the evening – or, more accurately, very early into the morning – when Merlin had stepped outside to breathe in the cold night air. The balcony was small but sturdy, and offered a sweeping view of the sleeping houses below, and the twirling stars above. He could hear the stars whispering, wanting to tell him something important. He couldn’t quite make out their voices.

He was straining his ears to listen to them when he felt it. A deep, trembling groan that shook the very core of the earth. Then – a golden light, dancing in the inky black, swirling and shifting and singing. Soon, the whole sky was illuminated with a soft gold glow that only Merlin could see. Its light reflected in his eyes, and thrummed in his soul. After all this waiting, it was finally time.

Merlin slid open the balcony door, and eased himself back into the kitchen. He surveyed the current state of the party, and his gold-blue eyes met Marcine’s green ones. “I’m afraid I have to go,” he told her, clasping her hand, “You’ve been a very dear friend to me – I hope we will meet again someday.”

Marcine nodded solemnly, not quite understanding the true meaning of Merlin’s words. He would write to her, he thought. She had been good to him, and it felt rude to leave with so little warning, but he had had no warning either. It was probably for the best, that way. The anticipation would have been unbearable.

He kissed Marcine on the cheek, and walked out the door, trading the hazy atmosphere of the party for the cool embrace of the golden wind. The sky was still glowing, and he followed the tendrils of light to the edge of the lake. It would have been a long distance for anyone else to cover, but Merlin was not like anyone else, not anymore. He covered the miles in a few short steps, the earth folding and reforming under his feet as he focused on his destination.

If the sky was golden, then the lake was incandescent. Merlin could feel the magic humming, vibrating his very being. He knelt down by the lake’s shore, and placed his hands into the water. The earth throbbed and the water spun, metallic ripples giving way to the grassy shores of a long-dead island. Merlin did not need the boat to reach the island, but he took it anyway.

Surging forwards on a sea of gold, it was not long until Merlin’s boat came to the centre of the lake. Merlin was so attuned to the magic reverberating off the surface of the water that he had forgotten to be nervous. It was only when his feet touched the soft grass of the island that he remembered where he was, what was happening. It was like the most beautiful of fever dreams. Merlin was hot with emotion. He felt his heart jump from within his chest when he saw the man lying on the grassy earth. He was every bit as beautiful as Merlin remembered him. He was dressed in his chainmail, his rich red cloak draped over his body like a blanket – or a shroud. His armour was freshly polished, his boots scrubbed clean, and a faint smile graced his lips. He looked as though he were sleeping.

Brave

@merthurmicrofic prompt: regret

Spoiler:

i just about cried in that sequence where finna is helping merlin up the stairs

gOD

and then merlin collapses because he’s literally bleeding to death and about to pass out 

but the only thing he says, as he’s teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, is this:

he’s dying.  and this is what he says.  

it’s what he tells mordred in 5.05.  it’s what he tells gilli.  it’s what he keeps telling himself, over and over again, no matter how much evidence to the contrary piles up at his feet, no matter how much he continues to suffer.  as if he has to keep repeating it to convince himself.  as if it’s a reflex now.

things will be better.  things will be better.  things will be better.

merlin has no choice but to keep believing this, or else all of his terrible pain and loss will have been for nothing.  or else all of the people who died to keep him safe will have died for nothing.  or else everything he’s given up for the sake of his people’s future freedom will have been sacrificed for nothing.  

he has to keep telling himself this, even if deep down inside he isn’t always sure that it’s true anymore.

During her trial, Arthur says “i’m not my father” as if he’s done anything during his reign to indicate that to magic users (note that this episode comes after Arthur sends his knights after Osgar just for being a sorcerer who resisted arrest, and after he sent men after Finna just for practicing the Old Religion)

And Kara rightly calls him on his bullshit when she says, “You don’t kill those with magic?” To which Arthur has no response because how does.

Kara stands before the king of Camelot who holds her life in his hands and tells him exactly what she thinks of him: 

“It is not I, Arthur Pendragon, who needs to answer for my crimes, it is you. You and your father have brutally and mercilessly heaped misery on my kind. It is you who has turned a peaceful people to war.”

Like damn. She doesn’t waver. She doesn’t soften her words. She doesn’t beg for leniency. 

Even when Arthur tells her he’ll rethink his sentence if she repents, she refuses. Arthur makes it so easy for her to say, “you know what, I’ll pass on this whole execution business” but she doesn’t because staying true to her cause and her people is more important.

Arthur gave her the most patronizing out in the world, talking about how “young” and “impressionable” she is–as if she’s the one between the two of them who’s deluded by prejudices–and instead of taking that out, she looks death right in the eye and tells him: 

“It is not a crime to fight for your freedom. It is not a crime to fight for the right to be who you are. You deserve everything that is coming to you, Arthur Pendragon.”

I mean seriously, the sheer power of this woman. Her very existence is outlawed, and yet she stands before the king and refuses to humor him for even a second, not even to save her own life.