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crack_van2010-08-21 07:35 pm
sandystarr88.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2010-08-21 07:35 pm
from a lacerated sky by vega_ofthe_lyre (T)
Fandom: MERLIN
Pairing: Gen; Arthur, Merlin, Morgana
Length: 4,487
Author on LJ: [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]
Author Website: [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]
Why this must be read:
A thousand years after he took his last breath Arthur wakes up to different Britain from the one he left, a Britain that desperately needs him now. [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]'s focus on Arthur, Merlin, and Morgana's friendship is very well done and anyone who loves the camaraderie between these characters in the series should give this piece a try, you won't be disappointed.
It is perhaps appropriate that Merlin’s face is the first one he sees in this strange new world.
He’s standing in the mouth of the cave, form silhouetted against the light. Arthur doesn’t recognise him at first; he squints, shadowing his face with his shield — after all this time, anything but utter darkness burns his eyes.
A voice rings out, wry and amused. “Finally decided to get up, did we. Still lazy as ever, I see, your Majesty.”
At that Arthur drops his shield with a muted thud on the cave floor because, it’s Merlin. He steps forward slowly, eyes stinging in the muted evening sunlight, not quite believing what he hears: but it’s him, it’s definitely him. He looks the same as he did when Nimueh trapped him under the tree, aged and wise, hair and beard streaked liberally with white, but still his daft self, his daft big-eared self, and anyway those blue eyes could never grow old —
Merlin smiles; Arthur says, “Liar, you were the lazy one, worst excuse for a servant I ever had,” and adds, “You thick prat, you stupid raging moron” and he pulls Merlin against him in a fierce hug, fists balled up in the heavy rough cloth of Merlin’s cloak.
Then he slaps Merlin upside the head, for old times’ sake, and Merlin grins that happy idiotic grin at him and Arthur just shakes his head, smiling back at him helplessly.
“Well, what are you doing here?” Arthur says. “I thought Nimueh’s spell couldn’t be broken, we tried everything — ”
“Morgana came for me,” Merlin says, smile fading a bit. “She figured I just needed the right push. The end of the world will do that to you, apparently.”
“Yeah, funny, isn’t it?” It’s not, but Merlin smiles again, almost preoccupied, and Arthur gives him a sidelong glance as they slowly pick their way down the side of the steep rocky hill. “Morgana, huh?”
Merlin nods down to the base of the mountain, and Arthur starts.
It’s Morgana, he knows that right away, looking pale and distracted as she leans back against a rotting fence, gazing into the distance. Arthur’s not quite sure how long he’s been asleep, but knows it’s been a fair bit (it’s the air, he thinks, the air that’s different, stale and suffocating and heavy with the stink of corrupted magic, the sky above him a queasy yellow-grey); Morgana, though, she doesn’t seem to be a day older than the last time he saw her. Her features might be slightly different, blurred with the passage of time and many different bodies inhabited, but her hair is as dark and thick and her wrists are as slender and elegant as ever.
And after everything between them, he still finds himself unspeakably glad to see her here; he won’t soon forget the kindness she did him by bundling him into that boat.
She notices him, finally, and the worry on her new face clears.
“About bloody time,” Morgana calls up to him, “thought I’d have to take care of this whole lark by myself,” and he waves a dismissive hand at her.
“Alright,” he says, “shut up, I’m coming,” and she pushes herself off the fence to join them.
When they meet halfway up the hill, she smiles, a little uneasily, hair lifting in an errant breeze. He looks her over; this close he can see that her jaw is more curved, her nose longer, but her eyes are even paler and keener than they were then — before.
“Morgana,” he says.
“Be nice,” Merlin mutters, and Arthur elbows him.
Her eyes are bright. “You’re really back,” she says.
He gestures wide, demonstratively, and clears his throat.
“So I understand,” Arthur says, “that Albion has need of me.”
Merlin raises his eyebrows, surveying the landscape. “Cutting it a hair close, aren’t we?”
Arthur looks around himself, really seeing for the first time. “My god,” he says involuntarily. The countryside is scarred and burned; in the distance he can see black smoke rising from a wasted village, and when the teasing wind shifts he can just smell the stink of smouldering flesh —
“It was in the water,” Merlin said abruptly. “Not a disease, nothing they could cure, but proper magic — old magic. By the time they figured it out, it was already in the soil, in the crops — and anyway there was nothing they could do. There’s only a handful of people left, little pockets here and there. Another rainfall might wipe them out.”
“This is sick, Morgana,” Arthur says, staring at his hands as he tries to fight down the blind proprietary rage that rises up in his throat. “Who’s done this?”
Morgana doesn’t respond; when Arthur finally glances at her, she looks white and tired, and he sees rather than hears her say Nimueh because a furious roaring is sounding in his ears.
His knuckles are white when he finally regains control enough to speak. “We finished her, Merlin. After what happened to you, we — she died. I know she did. I killed her myself,” he says, felt her go slack and still, cleaned her unnatural blood off the blade of my sword —
“Clearly,” Merlin says dryly, “these things are negotiable.”
from a lacerated sky
Pairing: Gen; Arthur, Merlin, Morgana
Length: 4,487
Author on LJ: [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]
Author Website: [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]
Why this must be read:
A thousand years after he took his last breath Arthur wakes up to different Britain from the one he left, a Britain that desperately needs him now. [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]'s focus on Arthur, Merlin, and Morgana's friendship is very well done and anyone who loves the camaraderie between these characters in the series should give this piece a try, you won't be disappointed.
It is perhaps appropriate that Merlin’s face is the first one he sees in this strange new world.
He’s standing in the mouth of the cave, form silhouetted against the light. Arthur doesn’t recognise him at first; he squints, shadowing his face with his shield — after all this time, anything but utter darkness burns his eyes.
A voice rings out, wry and amused. “Finally decided to get up, did we. Still lazy as ever, I see, your Majesty.”
At that Arthur drops his shield with a muted thud on the cave floor because, it’s Merlin. He steps forward slowly, eyes stinging in the muted evening sunlight, not quite believing what he hears: but it’s him, it’s definitely him. He looks the same as he did when Nimueh trapped him under the tree, aged and wise, hair and beard streaked liberally with white, but still his daft self, his daft big-eared self, and anyway those blue eyes could never grow old —
Merlin smiles; Arthur says, “Liar, you were the lazy one, worst excuse for a servant I ever had,” and adds, “You thick prat, you stupid raging moron” and he pulls Merlin against him in a fierce hug, fists balled up in the heavy rough cloth of Merlin’s cloak.
Then he slaps Merlin upside the head, for old times’ sake, and Merlin grins that happy idiotic grin at him and Arthur just shakes his head, smiling back at him helplessly.
“Well, what are you doing here?” Arthur says. “I thought Nimueh’s spell couldn’t be broken, we tried everything — ”
“Morgana came for me,” Merlin says, smile fading a bit. “She figured I just needed the right push. The end of the world will do that to you, apparently.”
“Yeah, funny, isn’t it?” It’s not, but Merlin smiles again, almost preoccupied, and Arthur gives him a sidelong glance as they slowly pick their way down the side of the steep rocky hill. “Morgana, huh?”
Merlin nods down to the base of the mountain, and Arthur starts.
It’s Morgana, he knows that right away, looking pale and distracted as she leans back against a rotting fence, gazing into the distance. Arthur’s not quite sure how long he’s been asleep, but knows it’s been a fair bit (it’s the air, he thinks, the air that’s different, stale and suffocating and heavy with the stink of corrupted magic, the sky above him a queasy yellow-grey); Morgana, though, she doesn’t seem to be a day older than the last time he saw her. Her features might be slightly different, blurred with the passage of time and many different bodies inhabited, but her hair is as dark and thick and her wrists are as slender and elegant as ever.
And after everything between them, he still finds himself unspeakably glad to see her here; he won’t soon forget the kindness she did him by bundling him into that boat.
She notices him, finally, and the worry on her new face clears.
“About bloody time,” Morgana calls up to him, “thought I’d have to take care of this whole lark by myself,” and he waves a dismissive hand at her.
“Alright,” he says, “shut up, I’m coming,” and she pushes herself off the fence to join them.
When they meet halfway up the hill, she smiles, a little uneasily, hair lifting in an errant breeze. He looks her over; this close he can see that her jaw is more curved, her nose longer, but her eyes are even paler and keener than they were then — before.
“Morgana,” he says.
“Be nice,” Merlin mutters, and Arthur elbows him.
Her eyes are bright. “You’re really back,” she says.
He gestures wide, demonstratively, and clears his throat.
“So I understand,” Arthur says, “that Albion has need of me.”
Merlin raises his eyebrows, surveying the landscape. “Cutting it a hair close, aren’t we?”
Arthur looks around himself, really seeing for the first time. “My god,” he says involuntarily. The countryside is scarred and burned; in the distance he can see black smoke rising from a wasted village, and when the teasing wind shifts he can just smell the stink of smouldering flesh —
“It was in the water,” Merlin said abruptly. “Not a disease, nothing they could cure, but proper magic — old magic. By the time they figured it out, it was already in the soil, in the crops — and anyway there was nothing they could do. There’s only a handful of people left, little pockets here and there. Another rainfall might wipe them out.”
“This is sick, Morgana,” Arthur says, staring at his hands as he tries to fight down the blind proprietary rage that rises up in his throat. “Who’s done this?”
Morgana doesn’t respond; when Arthur finally glances at her, she looks white and tired, and he sees rather than hears her say Nimueh because a furious roaring is sounding in his ears.
His knuckles are white when he finally regains control enough to speak. “We finished her, Merlin. After what happened to you, we — she died. I know she did. I killed her myself,” he says, felt her go slack and still, cleaned her unnatural blood off the blade of my sword —
“Clearly,” Merlin says dryly, “these things are negotiable.”
from a lacerated sky
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