Work Text:
Fandom: Merlin (BBC)
Prompt: “I know I shouldn’t be here.”
Merlin should’ve known that being the magical part of some great destiny would mean he has some really weird dreams.
He definitely should’ve known when Morgana’s nightmares crossed from being the night terrors of a young woman to prophetic visions that violently rebelled against everything she’d been indoctrinated to believe about magic. But he figured, hey, he doesn’t have the gift of prophecy, and he knows magic isn’t evil, so maybe he’ll be good? Once he starts his proper training for Morgana and he actually gets to talk about magic on the regular, he’s sure he won’t be getting any of her dreams. Because let’s be honest here, his sleep schedule is anything but regular and if anything is going to interrupt it, he needs to know.
“For god’s sake, Merlin,” Arthur says finally, throwing down his quill and staring at his servant, “I can hear your jaw cracking from over here. Didn’t you get any sleep last night?”
Merlin finishes clicking his jaw back into place and shrugs. “Sorry.”
“So you didn’t get any sleep?” Arthur’s boots hit the floor with a thud as he walks around to lean against the bedpost next to Merlin’s head. “Spend all night in the tavern?”
Merlin rolls his eyes and turns away. He did actually get some sleep last night but he definitely doesn’t have the energy to engage in on of those pointless arguments. Plus, it doesn’t hurt to always have Arthur fill in that hole for himself.
“Ah, no, that’s right,” Arthur says, “you don’t actually go to the tavern because you’re too busy running around doing—“
Merlin’s gaze shoots directly to Arthur, glaring at him to shut the hell up, please, because magic’s still not accepted in Camelot and the last thing they need is more rumors. Arthur just leans his head against the bedpost, concern written plainly on his face.
“So you’re not too tired to be worried,” he says, frowning when Merlin turns to get back to work, “but you are tired.”
“Yes, Arthur,” Merlin mutters, stacking all the sheets into the basket, “I’m tired. Certainly too tired to be able to talk to you and do all the chores you’ve given me.”
“Merlin,” Arthur calls and Merlin curses himself for the way he stops automatically. Arthur turns him to face him and looks over his face, still concerned. “You’d tell me if something really was wrong, wouldn’t you?”
Of course he can’t tell Arthur everything. Because then Arthur would worry more and that’s the last thing he wants. But then also Kilgarrah told him not to tell Arthur anything and you know, if there’s a surefire way to get Merlin to do just about anything, it’s have some crusty old dragon tell him not to do it.
“I will,” he promises, smiling at the way it smooths out the wrinkles in Arthur’s forehead, “but it’s nothing. I just didn’t sleep as well as I should’ve last night.”
“Because you were at the tavern?” Arthur chuckles at Merlin’s exasperated sigh and claps him on the arm. “I know, I know, you don’t even know where the tavern is.”
“I’ve been there once,” Merlin mutters as they both get back to work, “to get Gwaine’s arse out of there before anything bad happened.”
He can feel Arthur glancing up at him, concerned, as he keeps working. It’s barely for more than a second but his magic, damned thing, likes Arthur so much that it constantly pings every little thing it can, including a heightened sense of intuition for when Arthur’s looking at him. A small part of Merlin feels comforted by that, the knowledge that Arthur cares enough about his wellbeing to continue making these little checks. The other part is pissed off because it’s his magic’s fault he’s like this in the first place.
So as it turns out, without the gift of prophecy, a magic-user can still have dreams influenced by magic. It just means they don’t have the helpful thread of time pulling it into some kind of order.
Merlin’s dreams are imbued with magic to the very seams. It doesn’t surprise him. He is magic, for better or for worse, it’s no shock his dreams aren’t exempt. His magic is everywhere, running rampant, and during his dreams, he has no control of it. So it seizes onto the little things he can’t process—or doesn’t let himself process—during the day and wreaks havoc while he sleeps. Gaius calls them ‘waking thought dreams,’ where the mind is unable to stop thinking about one thing when the person falls asleep and doesn’t have the benefit of the conscious rational mind to sort through everything.
Merlin hates it.
Sleep hasn’t always come easy to him, even before coming to Camelot and that pesky dragon that liked to wake him up in the middle of the night. He was always bouncing off the walls as a child, his mother looking on fondly—and sometimes exasperated—as he rushed about, to and fro. She said it was no wonder that kept him from sleep. But the worst thing about the dreams is that they stop sleep from helping. When Merlin needs more energy, he can’t just catch a quick nap and be back to full strength. And sleeping with these dreams saps even more strength.
He sees visions of Arthur dying to old enemies, enemies he was too slow and too stupid to stop. He sees Arthur plunging his sword into Freya, into Balinor, into him. He sees Lancelot ripped apart by the talons of a wyvern, he sees Leon swallowed by an avalanche. He sees Percival staggering under the weight of a boulder before it crushes him, he sees Elyan in a suit of armor that fails in the midst of battle. He sees Gwaine struck down by a bolt tipped with poison, he sees Gwen caught in a battle she couldn’t hope to survive. He sees Morgana bursting into nothingness, he sees Gaius dying of a mysterious illness that no one can solve. He sees Uther’s eyes, Arthur’s eyes, the eyes of the knights, the eyes of everyone he loves, looking at him with disgust, hatred, betrayal before they vanish behind the pyre.
Gaius can always tell when he’s had one of these dreams. He doesn’t expect Merlin to speak very much on those mornings, knowing he’s saving all of his energy to get through the day. He sits Merlin down at the table and serves breakfast, making sure to give him plenty of honey in his morning tea. Sometimes, by the end of breakfast, Merlin can speak again. He thanks Gaius and goes on, if the dream isn’t that bad.
Sometimes he can’t speak until he sees Gwen, or Morgana, who understand what it’s like to try and recover from a troubling night. They’ll pull him into Morgana’s chambers and have him do small things, going over simple spells or consulting the visiting lists of nobles for who may be a threat. Then he smiles and makes sure to drop off a bunch of flowers or one of the new figurines he’s made from practicing the shaping spells.
Sometimes he can’t speak until he sees the knights. His chores do take him to the armory most days and he can find them there. Elyan is there the least, bust at work in the forge where he trades shifts with Gwen. But on the days he and Merlin cross paths in the armory, he sits Merlin down and explains the changes to the armor. How they’ll protect better, be easier to maintain. He gives Merlin new gauntlets and leather armor, promising to help him figure out how they fit. Gwaine and Percival distract him with stories of their travels abroad, breaking the hold silence has on his throat by making him laugh. Gwaine will come on his own too, to seek Merlin out, making sure he’s alright and sitting with him until he’s not. Seeing Leon is like seeing evidence that he’s done right. Leon will see what’s wrong almost instantly, pulling Merlin to the quieter corners of the armory and going over how a crossbow works. He takes Merlin’s hands and moves them carefully over the tools they have, teaching him like a little kid. He stands close to Merlin, making sure Merlin knows he’s safe, protected, and that his presence isn’t a threat to Leon. And if he lets Leon pull him into warm embraces of an older brother, well, that helps too. Lancelot makes him want to talk. He will take Merlin outside, to the parts of the battlements where no one goes anymore, and he will sit by Merlin’s side and ask him to talk in that low, soft voice, making sure every word is heard and everything doesn’t hurt quite so bad anymore.
Sometimes he can’t speak until he sees Arthur. On days where the dreams are so bad he’d rather stay up than risk falling into another, an iron shackle locks itself around his voice and he has to make it to Arthur’s chambers before he can find the key. In the early days, Arthur wouldn’t notice, and if he did, it would be with a remark that finally Merlin’s learning how to keep his mouth shut. Sometimes that would’ve been enough to make him snap something out of spite, sometimes not. Now, though, Arthur notices when he doesn’t speak in his chambers. Merlin will do his best to just get on with things, making sure he can channel what little energy he has into doing his job, but he will always stop when Arthur calls his name or places a hand on his shoulder. It’s one of the few times where Merlin lets Arthur be taller than him, let him ask if he’s alright. Sometimes that is enough to unlock the shackle, make Merlin want to reassure Arthur that yes, he’s alright, no need to worry that big head about it. Sometimes it isn’t. But it’s when Arthur makes him stop, truly stop, not just pause, with a hand on either side of Merlin’s middle, and says ‘thank you,’ knowing exactly what he’s thanking Merlin for, that the shackle dissolves into dust.
Sometimes he can’t speak at all.
He has one of those dreams and he wakes up, disoriented, stumbling out of his bed and immediately into the wall. The pain feels like it’s coming from the end of a hallway, somewhere he can’t hear. He casts a spell unthinkingly, something to keep his sense of balance up while he gets out. There’s too much here, he can smell every single on of Gaius’ potions, vials, herbs, everything. He makes it outside, letting his feet move on their own, following the golden thread that yanks on his chest. It hurts. It hurts. Everything is too much. He couldn’t change out of his day clothes when it came time to sleep, too worried about the feeling of the rough fabric moving against his skin to do anything about it. He regrets it now, it feels like every step he takes he’s shedding like a snake, too afraid to look behind him to see the trails he’s left. He can’t let himself think of anything other than the golden thread, pulling him away, away, away.
Then it pulls him into Arthur’s chambers and disappears.
Merlin’s heart stops when he realizes where he is. The smell hits him first; a combination of the armor polish, sunlight, and something distinctly Arthur. It makes the tunic stop trying to rasp his skin off, at least a little, but now the boiling worry instantly freezes into terror. Arthur will be mad. He’s not supposed to be here. Arthur will send him away.
Arthur wakes at the slightest noise when he is not being careful. Merlin is panting. Merlin slammed the door. Merlin is still panting.
Arthur’s head lifts from his bed and he sits up, staring at Merlin in the moonlight.
Merlin can’t speak. He can’t move. He can’t stop.
“I know I shouldn’t be here. I know I shouldn’t be here. I know I shouldn’t be here.”
Arthur’s getting up. He stands at the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving Merlin’s face. In this light, Merlin can’t see, can’t make out how angry Arthur is at him. He’s coming over. And Merlin can’t stop speaking.
Arthur takes his hands and it’s the first thing that doesn’t make Merlin hurt. It’s warm. It’s not quite soft but it’s…it’s not quite smooth but it’s…it’s not quite firm. It’s Arthur.
Merlin’s limbs protest when Arthur starts to walk them backward, toward the bed. He moves slowly, carefully, turning to sit Merlin on the bed with soft touches, asking him to stay with a wordless press on his knees. Merlin can only watch as Arthur crosses the room to the wardrobe, opening it and pulling out one of his nightshirts. The white fabric gleams in the silver light as Arthur comes back, laying it next to Merlin. Merlin looks up at Arthur, glowing in the moonlight, as he raises his hands to either side of Merlin’s neckerchief, waiting, asking.
Merlin floats. Floats somewhere outside his body where everything is too much and too little and he can’t speak. He watches from behind a thin pane of glass as Arthur undoes his neckerchief, setting it on the nightstand and peering at the red, raw parts where the fabric disagreed with his skin. The air is cool against his chest when Arthur maneuvers him out of his tunic, drawing a small gasp of relief out of him, the first sound he’s made since his mad dash here. Arthur’s nightshirt settles over him like wings.
A warm hand lays itself on Merlin’s chest, fingers almost slipping beneath to trace the outline of his collarbone, pushing back lightly. Another hand cups itself around the small of his back, laying him down against the sheets. He catches one more glimpse of Arthur’s concerned face before he disappears, its presence announcing itself with warmth next to him, pulling his still babbling mouth against a patient shoulder.
Why can’t he stop? These things leave him with barely enough energy to move, let alone speak. But he can feel his throat start to protest from behind the wall of glass, feel the words reflect and double back off of Arthur’s shoulder. He squeezes his eyes tight against the silver glow of the moon and beats against the glass with his fists.
Arthur pulls away and Merlin’s magic cries out, every single part reaching for him with arms made of lead and horses made of stone. But Arthur doesn’t go far, tangling one of his hands in Merlin’s and carefully undoing the ties to the curtains at each of his bedposts. When darkness falls, the glass shatters.
Arthur gathers him up in his arms, Merlin’s limbs going limp and his chest fighting to breathe, his throat still preoccupied with babbling nonsense. It hurts. It hurts. Everything burns. It hurts. Arthur’s touch is too much and not enough and Merlin wants both to drown and to burn in it. Arthur rolls him gently onto his back. He can feel Arthur hovering over him, his arms around him, every bit of his magic singing in his veins, With his eyes shut he can almost see him, just the faintest imprint in fine gold dust, leaning over him, sheltering him from the silver outside. Arthur still hasn’t spoken, hasn’t said a word to counteract the frantic babble coming out of Merlin’s mouth. And in the dark, Merlin can’t see his face anymore.
There’s a mouth on his neck.
Merlin whimpers in fear, terrified he’s about to have his neck torn open when Arthur presses a kiss to it and moves, kissing his way slowly up and down the pale skin.
“Shh,” he murmurs in between kisses, “shh-shh-shh.”
Here Merlin is, stripped in another man’s bed, forced to roll over and show his belly, teeth at his throat, and all Arthur is doing is kissing his neck and hushing him tenderly. He tries to listen, tries to stop whatever nonsense is coming out of his throat, but he can’t. He has no control over what he’s saying, his magic drawing it from deep inside it like some terrible poison being sucked out.
“Shh,” Arthur keeps saying, “shh…Merlin, it’s alright, shh…”
It hurts. And then it doesn’t.
Merlin’s throat tingles. Arthur pulls away, looking down at Merlin in the—wait, why is…
A small golden light shines between them, swirling from the pit of his chest into the air between them. Arthur’s eyes widen in surprise, reaching out to bathe his fingers in the gold. He glances up at Merlin, gaze softening, moving his hand to trace slow lines through Merlin’s hair.
“Hello, Merlin,” he murmurs, “fancy seeing you here.”
Merlin’s laugh chokes out of his throat, but he smiles at Arthur, the magic spilling in between them. Arthur’s hand goes back to settle firmly over the light, both gasping when the surge of warmth makes them clutch each other. Arthur chuckles breathlessly, tugging Merlin closer.
“Bad dream?”
Merlin nods, his limbs still too limp to do anything but let Arthur move him. Arthur settles Merlin’s head in the crook of his neck, murmuring quiet reassurances.
“Would you like to talk about it?”
Merlin shakes his head. Arthur doesn’t seem surprised, still tracing lazy patterns on Merlin’s back.
“Your magic seems content,” he muses, the golden light soft enough not to strain their eyes, “maybe this helps?”
Merlin closes his eyes, cuddling as much as he can into Arthur. Arthur smiles against his hair, pulling him close.
“We can talk about it in the morning,” he promises.
Merlin’s magic settles gently around them, glowing quietly within the darkness of the curtains. It has its vessel safe within the arms of its charge. Two halves of a whole. They will both sleep well tonight, it will make sure of it.