Chapter 1: Like Poison
Chapter Text
I
Three hours until dawn.
In the morning, he may wake up and find it strange to see his manservant sitting by the windowsill, staring at him with sad eyes, hands paused in the middle of writing. He will ask the boy if he had stayed there all night and whether he has any intention of attending to his duties soon because despite everything he has never really learned how to properly show his concern.
But if the servant hurries and finishes the letter…
In the morning, he will wake up groggy and disoriented, having woken up from much longer than a few hours of sleep. The soft light will fall on a sheaf of notes left on the windowside table, teetering on its folds with the slight breeze.
The poison may leave him confused, but not necessarily weakened, the physician said. He will be strong enough to stand on his own and walk to the table to pick up the note, to bend forward to pick up the ring that slips from the pages and clatters to the floor.
Your highness, it will uncharacteristically read, I am very sorry.
II
Gaius is, if anything, a scholar at heart. If he can forget, for a while, the look of hurt and disbelief in Merlin's eyes, he would concede that this case is one of great academic interest. No potion had ever been known to last for an entire month without sustenance or renewal from its source, but this one had lasted for more than a year, exhibiting the same potency despite the disappearance of its originator.
He gives the prince a draught of mint, honey, some purifying herbs--for 'cleansing the palate.' It is a simple enough mixture but the prince still coughs and vomits. It is a good thing, apparently. More of the poison leaving the system.
He almost cannot bring himself to suggest it.
"In a few days, when you are feeling, er, well, sire. I could give you. Something to. Forget."
Silence.
"Sire?"
The only answer is a fist tightening on a worn, crumpled piece of paper.
If I were braver, I would stay. But I suppose in the end I really am a coward. I don't think I can wait to see how much you will actually remember.
III
The king will not suffer his son any further poking and prodding and throws a rage at any suggestion on the same. In a different world, with a different set of histories, he might have grown to accept and appreciate magic. It was, after all, through a mist of twinkling lights and a burst of color that he first laid eyes on Ygraine, gaze locking on hers as she exclaimed in delight at the magical display. He used to say, the queen's smile was its own brand of magic, filling him with wonder and joy every time.
But that was a long time ago. Now he has a kingdom to lead and a son to prepare it for, and he has learned the hard way that magic is not only a distraction, it is a dangerous, evil thing and must be eliminated for the good of all.
And so there will be no experimentation performed on his son, even as the prince himself refuses to take any other droughts or mixtures. He cannot be blamed, after all. The last potion was a dangerous one and enough to keep one off them for a lifetime.
Within a few weeks, the prince goes back to his regular duties. He can only hide from his knights for so long. Everyone is welcoming, chattering incessantly, filling the air with questions and answers and gossip and musings welcome and unwelcome, making up for a void they refuse to name. For the name they choose to avoid.
This past year has been a dream, you know? Like I had been given a chance to steal a piece of time. And a piece of you. Maybe, by leaving, I could pretend that I'm bringing along that piece of you with me, and you do not have to be saddled with the mistakes you didn't even know you were making.
They say this is the darkest hour, you know? Before the dawn? But I think it's helping me see more clearly.
IV
He wakes sometimes in the night or early morning, filled with memories of the past year. Everything passes through a filter, a mellowed, tinted hue on each image. Shapes are blurry at the edges. Voices sound tinny and far away.
A flash of color. Red scarf floating to the ground. Red lips, reddening cheeks, the sky bleeding with the sun setting.
Fingertips and knuckles stained with ink. Early morning in the stables. The wood too rough, his voice, too rough as he says, "It's just a splinter," and laughs. A shield, mid-polish, falls on the straw, forgotten.
Honorable, they say. Duty, they say. Merlin's head, falling heavy on his shoulder, damp from the rain. He has never felt happier in his life.
It is unfair, the letter reads, and it is selfish, I know. But what do you expect me to do? I feel like a thief, like I've stolen this past year from you, but you--you have stolen all of me. And I wish I could take it back.
I wish this was simply poison, a sickness, something I could clean out of my system.
V
After a while, he has taken to writing it all down. It helps him distance himself from what happened. Pretend it is someone else's story. Perhaps, in a way, it is.
There was an argument in the courtyard, once. It involved shouting, and wrists being held so tightly they might have broke. The otherwise smooth wall is still chipped in all the spots where he had lost his temper.
On his birthday, he reaches the fifty-first chapter. He is amazed at how much he can remember. He goes back to Chapter 22 and trembles, as he reads, And his hands, they were soft, as he held me. His hands. His hands. They shouldn't be so soft. He held me. His hands, they were soft, as he held me. He held me. With impossibly soft hands.
He thinks, wryly, I can never be a poet.
He had rewritten the letter, word for word, from memory. The original is old and worn and hardly recognizable and kept hidden in the chest beside the wardrobe inside the room in the east wing that no one knows about.
The eighty-sixth chapter is the letter. As he reads it, he can almost hear Merlin as he says, I feel like the worst kind of idiot, for not noticing sooner. For letting myself get tricked into believing that it was all actually real.
I would stop time; if I try I think I could. I would keep you here, asleep in front of me, still in love with me.
VI
There is a song being sung in the villages; he hears the children bleat its chorus sometimes, but he can ignore the lively refrain as he leads another patrol. It is during the height of winter, as everyone is trapped in the hall, that the minstrel is coerced to earn his keep, and the soft notes of the lyre float in the air, and everyone's eyes turn to their prince, who has ink stains on his knuckles and splinters on his fingers, who storms off from the hall as the children sing along: And this borrowed heart I shall return, and you no more shall see me.
He sleeps early that night. He dreams of hands. Hands that reach into his chest, tearing his rib and flesh out of the way. Hands that reach out and wrap around his heart, squeezing out all the blood, wringing it dry until viscous, toxic, inky black fluid seeps out.
"Let me," he says, "I can do it." He reaches out and tears his heart apart but it is dry, brown and brittle and turns to dust in his hands.
They let me watch, he says, A parting favor, I guess. I watched while they cleansed you. Of the poison. And of me.
VII
There is a map in the prince's chamber. The left portion is in near-tatters, littered with cross marks and holes from the sharp end of a knife. As the year wears on, the center of the map gets populated, until only the rightmost edges are free from marks.
Border patrol, the prince says. Need to assess potential threats from the neighbors.
Uther is silent, and looks at his son as if seeing him for the first time. All this renewed passion for the patrols. He never questioned it, and he will not question it now. He may not agree or approve of all his son's actions, but he can at least understand. There are worse ways, he thinks, for the prince to try to cope. And after this round, he will finally rest and maybe, move on, start building the kingdom again.
I must leave, the letter says, Please. Don't look for me.
VIII
She would never have confessed if he did not shove the records in her face in anger.
"Why?" is all he says. His hands hang limply at his side, knuckles covered in ink.
He has been spending far too much time with a pen than with a sword. Gwaine had been teasing him, and hid all his supply of parchment.
In the scribe's rooms, hidden under books of two years back, he finds a records of a transfer of gold in Morgana's name. Hidden in the chest beside the wardrobe inside the room in the east wing that no one knows about were carefully written and dated notes, snuck in the corner of the chest. Written in Morgana's hand.
He scans through older pages
Awaiting depletion.
Defective.
No immediate adverse effects.
And older pages,
Deflected intended object.
And older pages still,
Subject exposed.
Purchase: 50 Gold Coins.
When you wake, Merlin says, you will have many questions. Me, too. But I don't want to ask. I'm too afraid of what the answers will be.
IX
Fingertips and knuckles stained with ink. They should not be the first things he notices, but it is early morning at the courtyard and he looks thinner and paler than his memories, his own dream-image come to life.
The wood, too rough as he grasps tightly for balance. His voice, too rough, except he never remembers what he says.
"The poison." Merlin's voice breaks on the word, choking as if he were made to swallow it in Arthur's place this time. "Is it… gone?" he asks. "Are you well?"
His voice, too rough. I will never be a poet, Arthur thinks. He laughs.
Merlin's hands, thin and pale and cold and unforgotten, they are soft; fingertips and knuckles stained with ink. Merlin's hands, by some miracle, still soft, as he pulls Arthur close, after too long, and holds him.
Arthur still has too many questions. But he has never felt happier in his life.
This is not love, they say. It is the poison: dirty and dangerous and lethal. I ask them, isn't that the same thing?
Chapter 2: Like Mercy
Summary:
I’m not sure how much will be left of me in your memories. Whatever remains, I hope the memories bring you joy, not pain.
I carry everything with me, and it hurts every day. But I can’t throw anything away. How could I? What part of me is left that you haven’t touched?
---
Merlin's POV of Like Poison.
Forgetting is mercy. Merlin struggles with forgetting.
Notes:
A companion piece to Like Poison. I do think Like Poison can be enjoyed/ read on it's own, but Like Mercy depends on reading the first chapter.
My personal suggestion though: if it's your first time reading Like Poison, give yourself a few minutes before jumping into this one. :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Like Mercy
I
Three hours until dawn. The servant’s hands are shaking so hard that ink is spilling all over the page and his fingers. The lights are kept low, so low he can barely see his own writing.
He breathes to still the ache stuttering in his chest, trying to escape.
The prince wakes once, blearily. He’s almost done. Almost free. That same haughty voice cracks, rough and tired from a night of purging. Cleansing.
The servant feels the ring on his finger, loose and cold. It never truly fit him.
He leaves before the sun has the chance to touch the sky.
Your highness, the letter reads, I am very sorry. I am sorry I couldn’t let go of you sooner.
II
He wants to punch Gaius in the face. Or maybe scream. Maybe that would make him stop talking: about cures, about spell modifications, about just how strong or feeble some curses can be. Make him stop asking all his questions: forcing him to list things that happened in the past year like they were merely observable facts, symptoms of a magical prognosis, and not moments that made him feel the most alive.
But Gaius is a scholar at heart. And he loves his pupil but he also serves his king, and surely Merlin has always known that. Surely this isn’t a surprise.
Before he leaves Gaius says, “Forgetting is a mercy. And something within our control.” And then he offers Merlin a cup of cool, astringent tincture. Something to forget.
The first few nights are rough. Cold. He reaches out to an empty space beside him, grasping at the air.
Forget me, please. At least grant me that little mercy. At least one of us should.
III
It’s not that hard, all told, to give up magic. It’s almost funny, thinking of how careless he used to be with it: how it used to spill over from him, accidental, unbidden. Now he shuts it off, a dry tap, a hollow well. The loss doesn’t hurt much if he doesn’t think about it.
He makes use of the herb lore Gaius taught him, makes his way through the villages with that simple trade. He lies low. Makes himself as small as possible. Practically invisible.
He crushes valerian root when he can’t sleep. Chews willow bark until his teeth ache, sweating through fever on rainy days.
It’s a lie of course. Giving up magic is hard. His hands itch all the time he scratches them till they bleed. Ink stains and blood on his fingers, he writes by the meager fire, listing all the things he really shouldn’t remember.
But this is his small consolation. If he is cursed with remembering, then let him remember everything.
I’m not sure how much will be left of me in your memories. Whatever remains, I hope the memories bring you joy, not pain.
I carry everything with me, and it hurts every day. But I can’t throw anything away. How could I? What part of me is left that you haven’t touched?
IV
Sleep is rare and hard to come by. He huddles into the letters he’ll never send, trying to catch a feeling of warmth that constantly eludes him.
He counts the days, the stars, the roll of the hills. The amount of valerian root he’s crushed trying to find some sort of relief.
At night if he sleeps he sleeps with arms crossed over his chest, protective and ridiculous and futile.
The memories rush in with the tide, every bit an assault, battering him with no mercy.
Sunlight glinting off his hair, the golden brush of it on his cheeks. The richness of his laugh, the warm steadiness of his hand on Merlin’s thigh, the glimmer of the sunrise.
His hand an anchor, pulling Merlin down to hide from everyone else. From duty. The shield clatters to the ground. Arthur’s laugh is golden and delicious and utterly and totally his.
Wicked , they say. Curse , they say. Arthur’s head on his chest, the soft comfort of his heartbeat, the quiet of the stables in the rainy morning. This is the happiest he will ever be in his life.
I wish I was allowed to forget.
V
After a while, he stops writing altogether. If he doesn’t write anything, he can convince himself of the finality of things. The story is over. The curse is broken. The prince lives happily for the rest of his days.
The truth is he’s run out of ink. He’s run out of paper. He burns the last of the letters in the fire, willing his own mind to purge the memory of Arthur’s smile into the flames. The ache of his laugh. The bitter taste of morning kisses. The scalding heat of his touch. The crooked benevolence of his arms.
He warms his hands on the sputtering flames, but it doesn’t do much, doesn’t last long. The ink seeps into new and old wounds. They never do stop itching. The ink marks stain his fingertips and knuckles and don’t go away.
The forest sheds its golden hair in decadent surrender, ushering in the biting cool of frost. He is running out of places to hide.
Getting rid of the poison is a messy process, painful, unforgiving. And I had to watch, helpless, as they fed you more and more of that cursed drink.
That’s how they wanted me to see you, before I left. Staining the sheets red with blood, burning your throat raw. See what you’ve done to him, they said. As if I needed more reminding.
VI
He finds shelter in a quiet village, shares floorspace with strangers in the inn. After a while, people stop flinching at his tattered fingers. He remembers how to smile, which helps. He is useful in the kitchen.
The traveling bard is broad and ungainly. He smells of soot and earth, and his fingers are rough with calluses, but it’s the closest to warm Merlin has felt in a while. He steals clumsy kisses when the innkeeper isn’t looking. His voice is a cool balm. It lilts and lulls like a spell. He steals away with Merlin’s story before the first snow falls.
The song travels over from the next village. The children sing it every day. This borrowed heart I shall return, Oh, Lover, please forgive me. Borrowed heart, returned to thee, Stranger, please forget me.
He leaves with the earliest sign of spring.
Would you believe me if I said that I did stop time? Was it selfish of me to do? It’s not that hard, actually. It’s much easier than forgetting.
VII
The woods are not as safe as he thinks. He almost gets caught once.
He knows the best trees to hide behind, the best way to slip his slight frame within their shadows, hands clutching his satchel tight. He knows how to slow his breath, still his racing pulse, stay unfindable.
But a familiar voice cuts through the clearing. The golden ring of it slices like an arrow between his ribs.
The contents of his satchel rattle in the quiet wood.
Merlin’s heart thuds in his chest, he squeezes his palm over his mouth to keep his traitorous voice from calling out his name. He can’t breathe. The corner of his eye catches a flash of red and gold, and for one second he wonders what it might be like to let himself be found.
Please. Don’t look for me. I don’t think I’d be strong enough to face your indifference.
VIII
The shakes and fevers come back. He chews and chews the bitter willow bark until it leaves cracks on his tongue.
He dreams fitful, fevered dreams. In some dreams he is well again. In some dreams he is warm without needing to fight and bleed for it. His heart is a glowing ball of gold and its lightness scares him. In some dreams he watches it dim, grow multiplying bruises, curl into itself like rotten fruit, food for the earth.
When he wakes, the cold never leaves him.
Don’t you like your little present? Morgana had asked.
He doesn’t connect the dots until much later. Perhaps he didn’t want to.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be better without you.
IX
He feels his hands shake, becomes aware of the ugly faded gray of mottled ink, the garish marks of old scars. It makes him wince, makes him hide them away instinctively. But Arthur notices anyway.
Early morning in the courtyard, painfully bright. Free from the haze of borrowed dreamlight, the lines of his face look more pronounced, the limp curve of his shoulders sink under the weight of ill-fitting armor.
He must be happier. Mustn't he?
“Is it gone?” His voice is small, broken from disuse. “Are you well? Are you… happy?”
Arthur laughs, a raw, bright golden sound that cuts with its welcome familiarity. His eyes, too bright, too red, as he stutters forward. Merlin catches him.
He’s surprised by how much of Arthur fits within his arms. He rubs his ruined hands over shaking shoulders, kisses away the salty wetness of Arthur’s joy.
Maybe I will never understand what mercy really means.
Notes:
I have sat on the idea of a companion piece to Like Poison for years. It's the piece first fan fiction I ever published, and still one of the pieces I am most proud of :) I always thought that the story worked by itself (and I do think it still holds up), but over the years I've always wondered how I would tell Merlin's side of the story if I ever got the chance.
I'd like to think I've grown both as a writer and a person over the past decade since I first published Like Poison, but it was gratifying to feel like I could step into their story here and still feel everything I felt the first time.
Let me know what you think. I hope you enjoyed reading it. :)
joe on Chapter 1 Mon 18 Feb 2013 08:17PM UTC
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Last Edited Tue 19 Feb 2013 06:54AM UTC
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