Work Text:
Ich Bin Artorius.
Disclaimer: Merlin, Arthur, and any characters of Camelotian legend belong to their respective owners. I have based my versions off of the BBC’s version of the story, Merlin, and see them as such.
Author’s Note: This has been rolling around in my head for quite some time, and I finally decided to just up and write it. Please forgive any historical, cultural, or mythical inaccuracies.
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His breathing is soft; if not a little ragged, against the wet ground beneath him. Hands shake as the strength of the ages is enough to propel him onward, forward, as the blonde man rises to his feet, swaying a little before gaining momentum. Blue eyes survey the sadly familiar horizon with a sort of weary acceptance, as one hand reaches to the side of his left hip, where once a blade might have been. Now though, there is nothing; only the memory of weaponry, as the man blinks, shaking his head a bit at his own foolery before reaching for the gun on his right.
He hates guns. They are solid and metal and cowardly. There is no honour in these things; they rip through flesh with little care and deadly precision; offering their bearer blind success. If Arthur could, he would have every man fighting blade to blade. At least that way, each man would have a fair shot. This world is a strange place though; full of distrust and fear. As he walks through the encampment, Arthur can practically feel the way his fellow men tremble; and it is not the sort of weary waiting that Camelot's men once faced war with, but a deep rooted hunger; like a dying man craving his last breath.
All of these men, though have yet to die. Arthur still remembers clawing his way from the ground, remembers the blind panic and fear, the grate of foreign language against his ears as he finally broke ground - the hail that swept down, eager to bury him once more. The smell of earth about him, the blurring of reality and memory.
It had taken a good three years to piece everything together. Arthur still has a few things he does not understand; a few matters he has not yet found answers for… but he believes he knows at least some of what has happened.
He knows he died by the lake of Avalon. He remembers Merlin there; sending him in a boat to that little island… and then, the world is dark.
Sometimes, Arthur closes his eyes and thinks he remembers the sound of a little girl, giggling at him, promising terror and fear. Sometimes, Arthur thinks he has simply gone mad, and none of this is real; that he is simply Arthur; a soldier conscripted like many others. Sometimes, the men ask about his family. It is usual here, common in the muck and dirt, to scavenge for hope in something familiar. Unwilling to lie, Arthur murmurs simply that he is alone; there is no one else. It is true enough. There is no father; for Uther Pendragon was buried many years ago; if Arthur’s memories are true… and if they are not true, well, the blonde never receives letters, never gets the packages he sees others opening, and thus, he must be alone.
Ich bin Arthur, he is constantly saying; and sometimes it felt like the truth. Sometimes, it felt like a lie. After all, the surname had been made up; filched from papers he had found; his passport forged - - and yes, that had took much time to understand. Conscription papers had been easy; this world was eager for bodies to fight, and Arthur’s name had not been in question. He somewhat doubted the case would have been the same if he had introduced himself as Arthur Pendragon instead, though.
Memories. They were funny, disturbing things. Whether his were even that, though, the man was unsure. Some nights, he awoke after nightmares; horrendous battles, crying out names like Morgana or Merlin or Mordred; and others, he found himself dreaming of dark haired men and redheaded beauties with a knowing smile and a sharp laugh. Then he would awaken; to the cold grass of this new world, and reality would come crashing around him. Sometimes Arthur has considered knocking himself unconscious; just to evade the confusion the dreams bring. He knows, though, that come the morning, he would, if he remembered what he had done, hate himself for it. Arthur Pendragon - or rather, Arthur Schmidt, is no coward; mad or not.
And so, he powers onward. For though he is unsure, as of yet, his place in this world, he knows what he is, if not whom, and that is enough - for now. Battle, after all, is no place for uncertainty and questions of heritage. Even if Arthur’s heart throbs sometimes at the mention of somewhere that almost sounds familiar, but is spoken with such hatred, such malicious intent, he cannot believe it is the same place.
On the battlefield, it doesn’t matter who he is - where he has come from. He is a soul to fight a war - one of thousands, and it is here that Arthur can relax just a little, can let his feet and mind do the work and switch off. It is, perhaps, a little sad that here is where Arthur feels most at home, most relaxed.
Arthur fights his way through the souls he has been told are his enemies, and wonders mutely if their leader has ever considered trying for peace. He does not dare say it, of course. No one speaks out of term in the army, after all.
One night, he and the men stop at a nearby inn; a charming little place with weary soldiers and a slightly skittish - if not hospitable - bargirl. The night goes by surprisingly eventless, pleasingly so, and Arthur finds himself delightfully buzzed on the effects of cheap lager. At some point during the night, he has noticed a man; slighter than he in stature, but with blue eyes and dark hair, that has been slowly inching closer throughout the night. As the man eventually seems to pluck up whatever is holding him back and moves over, Arthur raises an eyebrow at him, and gestures to the empty chair.
Something shifts in the brunette’s eyes -- something quick and sorrowful, and for a moment, Arthur is confused by the intensity of it. Shaking the thought away with the inner explanation of too much drink, he offers out his free hand, which is slightly grimy, and grunts out; “ich bin Artorius .”
The brunette smiles, and shakes his hand, his eyes searching Arthur’s as he murmurs, “Hello, Arthur,” The accent is cutting English, and is enough to silence some of the pub into staring at them both. The brunette doesn’t seem to care though, and even Arthur freezes as those blue eyes cast onto his own once more. “I’m Mordred. I’ve been waiting a long time for you.”
Finis.
Author’s N: All thoughts and comments are much appreciated!
*Ich Bin Artorios translates as “I am Arthur”