#arthur pendragon one shot

[justaz]

merlin as the village tease/flirt who only ever has little flings with people (much like gwaine) and never develops feelings beyond “oh they’re cute” or “wow they’re a good friend” falling for arthur and having no idea what it means until lancelot has to spell it out for him and then merlin is just a mess. he has to hype himself up before so much as talking to arthur. he feels every time arthur even glances his way and as a result grows clumsier and clumsier to the point where people genuinely believe he was cursed by a sorcerer on one of arthur’s quests that he tagged along on. he can’t look at arthur and listen to arthur simultaneously bc he gets blown away by arthur’s beauty that the rest of the world falls away. pacing for like a solid minute outside arthur’s chambers before he has to wake him up for breakfast, the guards stationed outside watching him go back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth before one of them just opens the door for him.

[piningeddiediaz]

Mary Oliver, from In Blackwater Woods 

[megafandombandgeekgirl]

So you know that scene in Season 1, Episode 13 Le Morte d’Arthur?

The one where Merlin is effectively telling Arthur goodbye because he’s not sure if he’ll make it back from fighting Nimueh?

You know, this scene-

Well, we all know that this episode was basically the epitome of Merlin stating his love for Arthur (see, “I willingly give my life for Arthur’s” and “I’m happy to be your servant until the day I die”).

But what if instead of Merlin just walking away to Arthur’s silence, the scene goes a little like this.

~~~~~~~~

“Any other pointers?” Arthur asked, glancing into his goblet again.

“No, that’s it. Just…don’t be a prat,” Merlin said softly, his gaze never leaving Arthur.

The prince stared at him at this, a curious expression on his face as he contemplated his servant.

Merlin turned to go then but before he reached the door, Arthur’s words stopped him.

“Why does this sound like a goodbye?”

Merlin stopped, not turning back, head bent. “Every moment is a goodbye, sire.”

“Wait. Come back here Merlin. What are you talking about?”

Merlin opened the door, still not glancing back for he knew if he did, he would tell Arthur everything. “I have to be going. I’m sorry. And- thank you. For everything.”

And then he was gone before Arthur could question him further. But Arthur being Arthur couldn’t let the feeling go that something was terribly wrong…

~~~~~~

And then of course, Arthur being Arthur, would have no choice but to follow him and after realizing what was wrong, do everything he could to help him.

Idk just thoughts. Merlin rewatch has me thinking….

[tiredcowboyy]

the next one shot I read that once im at the end makes me realise “oh this isnt a one shot its just an unfinished fic marked as complete” is gonna be my last straw of the year please dear GOD stop doing this or at least mark it as open ending

[escespace]

Where freaking are Merthur's tiktok edits with Hayloft?

[apinchofm]

Love is a Battlefield

Camelot is falling and yet, Arthur has one thing on his mind.

Or the alternative royal wedding.

[casualbluebirdmentality]

Leon's immortality predates the Cup of Life, y'all. he's just Like That

I'm assuming people have probably talked abt this already but if they have, I haven't seen it (i'm relatively new here), so I'm bringing it up myself lol.

(It's important to note here that in the end credits starting from s2e2, Rupert Young has always been referred to as playing Sir Leon, so it is the same character.)

Remember s2e13 The Last Dragonlord, when Arthur asks his knights who among them are willing to ride out with him to fight this big-ass dragon, and Leon is the first to volunteer? And they then show Leon, with Arthur and the others, as they ride out to fight Kilgharrah in that weird-ass square field?

...And then Kilgharrah one-shots literally everyone except for Arthur & Merlin???? And when the two return, they're just like, "yeah all the other knights died valiantly defending the kingdom, very sad" ???????

Personally, I believe this only leaves us with two (2) options:

The writers just straight up Forgot (or maybe ignored) that Leon was one of the knights that died, and just kept writing him in bc he was a well-liked character,

Or,

2. They're therefore implying that, canonically, when Arthur&Merlin got back to Camelot and said that all the knights were dead, they were just straight-up wrong. Which means that Leon had to just... find his own way home, I guess, after having been freshly charbroiled by a fucking dragon.

Merthur: None of the other knights made it, even Leon :(

Leon, covered in burns, wheezing on the ground in that big-ass field: QUIT TELLING PEOPLE I'M DEAD

Merthur: sometimes we can still hear his voice :(

The wiki says that "many believed he'd been killed" when he "was injured by the great dragon," but that "this was ultimately disproven by his return in Series 3"...

...which I believe falls squarely into #2 listed above lmao. He wasn't dead, just injured. They just fucking left him there.

TL;DR: yes, he's immortal, but it's not even from the cup. he's just Built Different

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Merthur fic/playlist!

So when I finally got back into fic writing back in early October (can't believe it's been that long!) I started out with this four-part Merthur fic (it's one continuous AU where each of the four parts tackles an event that should have happened: in order, a love confession, a magic reveal, a reconciliation with Morgana, and taking down Uther). It's deliciously angsty and tender and the playlist greatly reflects that.

Excerpt:

Arthur's gaze is unnerving. It is wretched. It is impossibly close as Arthur leans in and their lips connect, a salty communion, a bitter goodbye, the sweetest of surprises, the sourest of reminders.

Arthur's kiss digs. It burrows beneath Merlin's skin and into his heart and shoves its roots in and he gasps into it, knowing that he will never be able to hold onto it.

Arthur goes to pull up, to pull away, and Merlin's hand shoots out instinctively, without thought, to grab the back of his neck and pull him back.

Merlin is a weak, craven creature, he knows. He is owed nothing save the other side of his coin. His destiny says nothing about love. It says pretty much the opposite, in fact, condemns him to be a lonely shadow to the greatest King to ever walk Albion's stones.

He should let go. He should let Arthur have his future with Gwen, his Kingship without nasty ties to sorcerous servant men who have three strikes against them in terms of love.

But even as his fingers slacken, Arthur's grab his and hold tight, tugging him close, holding him closer.

[junemo10]

Hiii! How about merthur and 13 for the ask game??

Hi!! Thank you so much for the Ask, I hope you are well! This got a little long, but the thoughts kept flowing and I got too excited about it, so I hope you enjoy my spin on the prompt! 💖

Sending you love ❤️💕❤️💕❤️

Ask Game: Write a Kiss…

13. discreetly

Arthur was never raised with the utmost affection. Anyone who had ever met his father could probably guess this. He grew up without affectionate touch, just the strong grip of his father forcing his every thought in the path of his future kingdom and the duties he would fulfill.

Arthur never really thought about it, how much affection a simple touch could hold, how much he desired to know what it felt like to have what most considered a natural way to communicate. Not to be earned through merit and trials, but to be gifted through trust and love.

It truly wasn’t until the worlds most unprofessional manservant was assigned to him that he even began to wonder. From the moment they met, they shared a touch that sent a tingle up Arthur’s arm. Albeit, brief and confrontational, Arthur couldn’t stop thinking about the feeling he had, thinking of the pretty looking man with funny looking ears sticking out the sides of his head.

Once Arthur happened to find himself unwillingly adopting the man into his service, the feeling only increased further. It was clear the man had never been a manservant before. Merlin’s hands were unpracticed and clumsy as he would help the prince into his armor, or tie his tunic, or brush his hair into place. Every slight touch that Merlin’s hands touched Arthur’s skin was a jolt, a shock and a strange curiosity. It wasn’t the practiced precision of the maids Arthur was used to, the slow distanced adjustments and objective necessity. Merlin’s way was always, different.

Though Arthur would never admit it, he didn’t dislike the way Merlin preferred to do things. Merlin’s touch was gentle, it was kind, it was caring- in a way that didn’t say “I’m helping the king-to-be” but almost saying “you are cared for”. Merlin always made him feel cared for, even when he could be the grumpiest, most annoying, Prince in all the lands. Merlin would take a gentle hand, smooth out the wrinkles in Arthur’s shirt, brush a few hairs out of place and put Arthur in place with his words about what a “right prat” he was being. But his comforting touch, never changed. As if Arthur was always worthy of it, no matter what.

As time changed, Merlin got better at his duties. No more was the clumsy grasping hands, or the crash of armor against the ground. Merlin’s hands had become decisive, practiced, and, dare Arthur say it, professional. It was like Arthur was a puzzle that Merlin had mastered again and again, until it was something he could do in his sleep.

Yet, even in the monotony of the task, Merlin found ways to ingrain those caring touches into the work. A swipe of the thumb along his wrist, a brush of his knuckle against his neck, a steadying hand on his back, fingers grazing his forehead as he pushed his hair into place.

Arthur watched Merlin closely with a curious eye, and tried to discern whether he was doing it on purpose. A few times, he would catch Merlin’s eyes, like when he was standing in front of him or when their eyes met in the mirror, and Merlin would blush and look away as if caught in the act. The act in question, Arthur wasn’t quite sure.

That is until all was revealed in an explosive fashion, which happened to be Merlin’s style. The magic reveal, the love confessions, the fear, the shame, the love. Then everything clicked into place and made sense. All the slight touches, they were affection. They were Merlin’s way of showing affection.

Merlin taught Arthur about affection, about how he deserved to be loved, about how a simple unknowing touch could say “I’m worried about you” or “I’m here for you” or “I love you”. Because while in the privacy of Arthur’s chambers they could say and do as they pleased, it was like they were in their own little world.

The world beyond, however, they couldn’t risk it. At least not until Arthur was king. For the sake of keeping Merlin safe, even though to Merlin it was to keep Arthur safe. No one could know that Merlin had magic, or that he had Arthur’s heart.

At first Arthur was anxious, worried if it showed on his face, or in the interactions he and Merlin had. It became clear, though, that they were able to continue their normal habits without anyone being the wiser, as they had always been a peculiarly close pair. A shove to the shoulder, a nudge of a leg, a tap on an arm, a ruffling of hair.

Arthur became more aware of how much more it represented now. Slowly, as they got more comfortable, they got bolder with it too, sneakier. Almost like a game with how affectionate they could be.

This sudden change, also included something they had never done before: kissing.

In the privacy of Arthur’s -their- chambers, they could explore each other with a freeing lack of worry. But outside of the chambers, they had to be more cautious. Arthur never wanted to risk it, for merely attempting to sneak a kiss was too much for Arthur. However, Merlin felt more daring at times, no matter how much Arthur scolded him for it.

It started when Arthur had a bad hunt, out with the knights in the woods. There was no sense of privacy amongst their bedrolls, or sitting near the fire. But when Merlin bent down to hand Arthur his stew, Arthur felt the familiar weight of a kiss pressed to his hair. Fleeting, gone quickly, but comforting nonetheless. Arthur froze, glancing around at the knights, but if anyone had seen it, they made no indication. Arthur raised his eyebrows at Merlin, trying to look stern but he was sure the grateful look in his eyes gave him away by the grin Merlin sported.

From then on it only increased. A kiss to the wrist as Merlin worked Arthur’s glove onto his hand, a peck to the neck as he adjusted Arthur’s armor, lips brushing his hair as he refilled his cup, a quick smooch to a bruise as Merlin tends to an injury on the training field, a touch of lips to his finger when Arthur scolded Merlin in front of the knights and stick it out in front of his face.

Arthur would never get enough of his idiotic warlock, no matter how many heart attacks Merlin would give him.

“One day, I promise you, we won’t have to hide or worry about how much affection we show each other,” Arthur vowed as he laid into their bed and pulled Merlin into his arms. Merlin yawning as he was gently guided, pliant in his tiredness from the day, melted into Arthur’s touch and molded into his side.

“I know, Arthur. I can’t wait for that day,” Merlin smiled brightly, cupping Arthur’s face in his hand. He raised his eyebrow comically, a teasing smirk on his face. “And until then, discreet is my middle name,” finishing off with a wink.

Arthur couldn’t help the cackle that escaped his chest, pulling Merlin’s arm until he was practically laying on top of Arthur.

“My sneaky little warlock, I love you so.” And without any further thought, he pressed his lips to his lover’s, feeling all the love in affection he could ever ask for.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

💖 thank you for reading! Please send me an ask for the ask game: Write a Kiss

[comment-exchange]

347. [Podfic] Truths Both Big and Small (Merlin)

Title: [Podfic] Truths Both Big and Small

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56121244

Platform: AO3

Creator: MeggieJolly

Work Type: Podfic

Fandom: Merlin 

Rating: Gen

Pairing: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon

Audio Length: 08:31 minutes

Warnings: Very slight canon typical violence

Number of comments: 1

Completion Status: Complete 

Short summary/description: 

Podfic of Truths Both Big and Small by the_seaworthy_muffin

Arthur knows about Merlin’s magic. He shouldn’t have anything left to be shocked about. But- Merlin is supposed to be fluffy, and quirky, and adorable, and harmless, and launder clothes and polish armor with his magic. Merlin is most definitely not supposed to call lightning from the sky, or blast bandits to oblivion, or-or-or-actually be a capable sorcerer by any means. Arthur is not Ready for this.

Arthur simply gapes, reveling at the feel of cool air over his chafed wrists. A dream. Just a dream. Just a very, very strange dream……“What!” Merlin throws his hands up in the air, face an utter study in bafflement. “What did I do wrong now?”

[thekingspersonaldumbass]

Wrote another merthur one shot but this time its staying a one shot lmao

Summary:

Merlin finds himself needing one of Arthur's keys for whatever magical endeavor he's on but as he tries to steal from Arthur's room, the prince himself and Gwen walk into the room, Merlin hiding himself in Arthur's wardrobe when Arthur admits the very thing Merlin had been waiting to hear for months; that Arthur was in love with him.

Basically a fluff fic

[boggywitchin]

The Fear of Losing Him

“I’m sorry.” Arthur choked out. “I was so scared.. when you left, I-“ Merlin felt something warm and wet fall onto his shoulder. Arthur was crying.

Merlin said gently, “It’s normal to be afraid of death, Arthur.”

“I wasn’t afraid for me.” Arthur whispered “I was afraid for you. I was afraid of losing you. Please.. let me stay like this for a little while. I need to know you’re actually here.”

--

The Fear of Losing Him (4557 words) by Boggywitchin

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: Merlin (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)

Characters: Merlin (Merlin), Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Gaius (Merlin), George (Merlin)

Additional Tags: Gay Sex, One Shot, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Neck Kissing, Insecure Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Top Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Bottom Merlin (Merlin), Top Arthur Pendragon/Bottom Merlin (Merlin), Merthur - Freeform, Comfort, Fluff, Morning After, Banter, Slow Burn Vibes, Caring Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Hugging

Summary:

Overwhelmed from their latest battle, Arthur seeks Merlin out; he just wants to hold him for a second, a minute at most.

[rosekiller-addict]

Important!!

Okay so I'm thinking of writing some sort of Merthur thing on here, kinda like a collection of one shots (thing the length of the longer headcanons I post) that all line up in some sort of story about Merthur.

Would y'all read it? If so please let me know by either commenting, liking, reblogging or just telling me personally.

Thank you guys so much!

-Lyric

[random-hooman]

I SHOULD NOT BE THIS HYPED UP ABOUT A METHUR FANFIC AT 3:16am BUT

HELL YEAH!

YOU GO MERLIN!

SAVE YOUR PRINCESS (AKA ARTHUR)

I HAVE SO MUCH FUDGING ADRENALINE RN

WHO NEEDS COFFEE WHEN YOU HAVE ✨MERTHUR FANFICTION✨

(btw the fic is called "About Time" by rosewatergold on ao3, it's a merthur time travel fix-it AU one-shot)

[guesswhogotaname]

Here we go again... 

Ça faisait loooooongtemps l'équipe ! Me revoilà après avoir ouvert un dossier perdu sur le bordel de mon ordi intitulé "FICS" et boum je tombe sur cette pépite hehehe! On est toujours sur cet ✨AU multilanguage kt ✨j'espère que ça va vous plaire, n'hésitez pas à partager vos idées et vos critiques ! 🤟 Voilà, kiffez bien votre lecture les djeunes !

Le jour qu'elle avait tant attendu arrivait enfin.

Son cœur battait à la chamade dans sa poitrine, tout le monde la regardait s’avancer vers l’autel. Elle souriait, ravie, impatiente, nerveuse. Tous les représentants des terres celtes étaient venus en Carmélide pour son mariage ; elle était épiée, chaque geste, chaque pas étaient méticuleusement observés, détailler. Elle n’était pas belle, elle le savait, mais elle se sentait fière. Fière d'être la digne fille de sa mère et de son père ; celle qu'on avait choisi pour l'Élu des Dieux. En silence elle leur adressa une prière ancienne, espérant être à la hauteur de ce qu'on attendait d'elle. Son fiancé était là, habillé d’une tunique bleu ciel, la couronne de fleur posée sur sa tête, son air bougon, agacé, ses cheveux noirs, coupé court, tellement différent des hommes d’ici. 

Elle arriva à sa hauteur, mais n’osa pas rencontrer son regard. C'était encore un geste trop démesuré pour elle. Devant eux, le prêtre s’avança, vêtu d’une longue robe sombre, et d’une lourde croix pendant à son cou. Il avait un calice doré entre ses mains. 

« Au commencement, le Seigneur Dieu dit : il n’est pas bon que l’homme soit seul. » Il prononça lentement, pesant contre sa langue le poids de ses mots. 

Ghenifar ne connaissait pas les rites ou les coutumes des chrétiens. Sa mère crachait sur leur pratiques barbare et austère. Son père n’en pensait pas mieux. Son enfance avait été bercée de contes et de légendes ; des Dieux puissants qui se transformaient en rivières ou en forêt, des géants qui siégeaient au sommet des plus hautes montagnes, et qui observaient les Hommes avec compassion et une certaine forme de sévérité. Créatures omniprésentes, toujours parmi eux, témoins silencieux. Ils étaient impétueux et sa famille lui avait appris à craindre la foudre, à lire les signes des sécheresses, les corbeaux morts qui annoncent la peste, les hivers trop rudes qui présagent la guerre. Elle obéissait aux croyances de sa mère et de son peuple. 

Le prêtre continuait son sermon dans cette langue bizarre, aux sonorités écorchées, aigües ; la dévotion dans ses paroles et dans ses yeux rendait son discours presque touchant. 

Ghenifar s’agita, inconfortable ; elle tritura nerveusement la manche de sa robe de noce, inquiète de ce que les Dieux pensèrent d’elle. Ils la foudroieraient sur place si elle prêtait un serment à une icône factice. Elle essaya discrètement de faire signe à sa mère qui se tenait à sa gauche. Cette dernière hocha la tête, grande Reine-Guerrière, elle ne fléchira pas devant les envahisseurs et leur idole de bois. Mais aujourd’hui, les Éternels feront exception pour le bien du peuple celte. 

Ghenifar retourna son attention sur la cérémonie. L’homme, qui se fait appeler « Père » par les invités, approcha le verre des lèvres de son époux. Il prit une gorgée, avant un soupir. 

« Le sang du Christ. » Confia le prêtre devant elle, lui tendant la coupe où reposait un breuvage odorant et ocre à l’intérieur. 

Ghenifar ne comprenait pas les mots, mais elle obéit. Les druides de son pays faisaient ça aussi, ils partageaient dans une jatte plate le sang d’un animal sacrifié et ils le buvaient chacun leur tour, subissant la prophétie envoyée. Dans ces croyances, ce n'était pas anodin, le sacrifice d'un être vivant était nécessaire seulement pour mes fêtes importantes ou avant les batailles décisives. Ici, les gens boivent du sang comme d'autres boiraient-ils du vin ou du lait... Les druides ne prenaient jamais part, ils n'avaient pas de chef, ils servaient les Dieux. Pourquoi alors cet homme que tous appelle "Père" est au service du Roi ? Ghenifar eu soudainement une boulé d'angoisse logée au dessus de sa poitrine, le prêtre était peut-être un mauvais présage, il apporte le dieu usurpateur... Mais tout le monde attendait, impatiemment, elle devait faire comme eux.

Elle fut surprise quand elle prit une lampée du liquide âpre qui puait le vinaigre. C’était du vin. Elle ne put retenir une grimace, le goût infect restait sur sa langue et descendait dans sa gorge. Ce n'était pas du sang. Son futur époux l’observa, étonné de sa réaction, mais il eut un demi-sourire amusé. 

Ghenifar ne put s’empêcher de rougir. 

Le prêtre reprit, dans une voix monotone et solennelle. « Vous avez écouté La parole de Dieu qui a révélé aux Hommes le sens de l’amour et du mariage. Vous allez vous engager l’un envers l’autre. » 

Son époux leva les yeux au ciel, marmonna quelque chose entre ses dents, ses iris sombres ne masquant rien de son agacement absolu. « Oui, bon, allez, grouillez-vous, on n’a pas toute la journée… » 

« Je peux pas aller plus vite c’est les codes ! » 

« Vous savez où je les mets vos codes à la con ? » Il menaça, la mâchoire crispée par sa colère contenue.  

Des murmures se propagèrent dans l’assemblée. Outré, le prêtre semblait avoir les yeux qui sortaient de son crâne. Il souffla un « Enfin Sire ! » en faisant un signe de croix sur son cœur. 

Ghenifar restait muette, elle observait la scène sans en saisir le sens. Les coutumes chrétiennes étaient particulières. Dans sa famille, la foi était pratiquée par des chants et des danses. On appelait les Dieux à rejoindre les festivités, les gens voulaient les honorés par des jeux et d’immense banquet. 

Arthrhy se tourna vers elle et enfin leurs yeux se rencontrèrent. Ghenifar resta suspendue à ses lèvres, observant méticuleusement son futur époux prononcé des mots en brittonique pour que tous ici puis comprendre son affection. Tous allaient être témoins du début de la plus belle histoire d’amour jamais écrite. Elle était si heureuse d’entendre ses vœux, et son cœur s’envolait comme un oiseau libre et fou. 

« Aujourd’hui, Naofa Gwenhwÿfar… » Il n’arriva pas à terminer sa phrase ; les mots avaient pourri sur sa langue et l’odeur amère de la trahison emplissait ses narines. Il la regarda un instant. Elle était d’une beauté attendrissante, presque triste. Elle aussi portait une couronne de fleurs sur ses cheveux bruns, quelques pétales s’étaient perdues dans ses boucles, son visage rond à peine sorti de l’adolescence, ses grands yeux noisette, pétillant d’une joie immense. Elle était trop jeune pour être une épouse, pour être Reine. En déclarant ses vœux d’un mariage éternel et heureux, Arthrhy la condamnait à une vie bien malheureuse. Il avait honte. « Je vous prends pour être ma femme. » Il eut le temps d’une inspiration, les mensonges collaient à sa langue et son palais, il avait l’impression de s’étouffer. La dernière fois qu’il avait prononcé ses mots, c’était par amour et non par devoir. Il trahissait Aconia, et il trahissait cette jeune femme dont il ne connaissait que le nom. Tout les Dieux, anciens et nouveau, devraient le maudirent à l’instant pour son impunité. « Je promets de vous aimer pour le meilleur, pour le pire, dans la maladie ou dans la santé, jusqu’à ce que la mort nous sépare. » Il termina rapidement son scandaleux mensonge, le cœur serré dans sa poitrine.

Lui qui avait cru être un homme intègre, loyal et juste… Il était comme tous les autres ; avide de pouvoir, ce mariage n’était qu’une passerelle pour affermir son privilège sur le trône de Bretagne. Il n’était qu’un menteur, un lâche. Il n’avait rien de l’étoffe des héros et des rois de légende. Ses poings se serrèrent, et sa mâchoire se crispa. Il aurait voulu hurler de rage, mais il resta droit, digne de l’image que le peuple avait d’un souverain. Son règne commençait et le poids sur ses épaules était déjà incommensurable. 

Le roi Léodagan se racla la gorge, il était légèrement embarrassé. 

« Ma fille ne parle pas brittonique, sire. » 

« Elle peut le dire en sa langue natale, ce n’est pas important. » Répondit le Roi, indifférent. 

Les mots rassurants, mais autoritaires de son père lui parvinrent ; un ordre força le serment hors de sa bouche. C’était à son tour de prononcer les vœux qui l’uniraient à jamais à cet homme. 

Ghenifar était terrorisée, ses lèvres tremblèrent, le sang pulsait dans ses veines à une cadence vertigineuse. Elle n’avait pas la force d’élever les yeux, elle fixa le médaillon de son époux, et elle serrait si fort le bouquet dans ses mains que les fleurs elles-mêmes vacillaient. Ce n'était que des mots, elle les avait apprit par cœur dès son enfance, sa mère lui récitait en coiffant ses cheveux indociles, elle répétait "un jour, ma fille, tu épousera un homme, et tu nous rendra fière." Elle avait vécu avec cette épée au bord de la gorge. Elle était une fille, elle devinerait femme et mère, c'était son devoir. Maintenant, elle devait prouver son héritage de femme. Rendre ses parents fiers, être digne. Elle avait presque envie de pleurer et s'enfuir en courant.

« Tha mi… Tha mi… » Elle regarda ses parents qui lui firent un signe impatient de continuer. « Tha mi a' mionnachadh… » Ghenifar balbutia, effrayée du son de sa propre voix dans le silence respectueux de la cérémonie. Toutes ces hommes et ces femmes qui écoutaient son élocution bancale, incertaine, proférer des paroles sacrées, elle était indigne de ce qu’on lui donnait. Elle devina son visage écarlate, ses joues en feu. Ses yeux se levèrent, acte absurde et maladroit, mais elle vit le regard de son époux, sincère et patient. Quelque chose se dénoua dans ses entrailles, libéra sa gorge, et elle sentit les mots coulés hors de ses lèvres avec sérénité et douceur. 

« ‘S mi-mionnachadh air sith 's air gaol a bhi seasamh. Cridhe gu cridhe 's làmh an làimh. Gus an diugh, gu m’ anail mu dheireadh, cha bhi mi ach leatsa. » Elle lui jura un dévouement éternel avec une conviction troublante, Arthrhy en avait mal au cœur. 

L’épouse qu’on lui avait promise était une âme douce, innocente, charmante. Il regrettait de ne jamais pouvoir l’aimer ni de lui offrir ce qu’elle désirait. 

Le prêtre posa sa paume à plat sur sa croix, sans dissimuler son émotion. C’était un mariage réussi, contrairement au précédent qu’il avait eu le malheur d'officier… 

«Le Créateur dit : Voilà pourquoi l’homme quittera son père et sa mère, il s’attachera à sa femme, et tous deux ne feront plus qu’un. » Il déclama à l’assemblée, captive par les Saintes Écritures. «  Ce que Dieu a uni, que l’homme ne le sépare pas ! »

Des invités applaudirent, des convertis chrétiens, ou des amateurs de belles paroles. La famille de la mariée ne semblait pas autant ravie par ces déclarations. Le Roi de Carmélide maugréait dans sa barbe et tapait du pied. Un païen reste un païen. Les paroles des chrétiens ne valaient rien, et le Roi de Carmélide ne se laisserai pas duper. Il cracha derrière son épaule, ces Dieux à lui maudissaient déjà cette union. Mais pour le pouvoir, il fallait faire des sacrifices, même si c'était sa fille qu'il déposait devant l'autel du jugement. C'était elle qui subirait les conséquences de l'avarice de ses parents...

« Vous pouvez embrasser la mariée. » Le prêtre Blaise frappa dans ses mains joyeusement. 

« Hein ? Quoi ? »  Demandèrent à l’unisson Arthrhy ainsi que le père de l’épousée. 

« Bah, c’est dans le livre, il faut que… »

« Devant tout le monde ? » Le Roi s’exclama, le bout des oreilles rouges, et il essaya de toutes ses forces de ne pas prendre compte du fou rire de Léodagan.

« Bah Sire… C’est pour prouver que votre amour est — »

« Ah non, ne commencez pas ! Bon bah… »

Arthrhy ne savait plus où poser son regard, déconcerté, il marmonna une insulte envers le prêtre, ou Dieu, ou peut-être lui-même. 

Ghenifar tourna la tête vers ses parents, cherchant une réponse auprès d’eux, mais son père se tenait les côtes pour ne pas rire, sa figure transformée par une grimace. Sa mère, avec une discrétion immense, murmura de sorte que tous les invités pouvaient l’entendre « Feumaidh tu pòg ris  ! » Ghenifar était rouge jusqu’à la racine de ses cheveux. 

Arthrhy prit les mains de sa femme dans les siennes. Ce n’était qu’un baiser, rien de bien compliqué. Il avança légèrement son visage vers elle, et il avait l’impression que son cœur tremblait. C’était elle qui franchit la dernière limite, un peu brutalement, leurs bouches se rencontrèrent, comme un choc. Le monde se mit à gronder des hurrahs et autres acclamations des invités. Ghenifar sentait le soleil fondre dans son ventre et l’irradier de lumière et de bonheur. 

Arthrhy s’éloigna rapidement sans considérer celle qui venait de devenir sienne, son visage fermé dans une expression rude. Il gagnait un royaume, un peuple obéissant et soumis à son pouvoir indiscutable. Son destin était lancé, et pourtant il était vaincu. Il avait perdu. 

Elle le suivit du regard, interdite devant l’autel, son bouquet à la main, ses rêves plein les yeux. Elle comprit sa place : aux premières loges du début d’une tragédie. 

Les paroles du prêtre résonnaient dans sa tête comme un avertissement, un oracle ombrageux. Les dés étaient jetés ; elle eut comme un vertige, au fond d'elle-même, elle sombrait. Elle devait enterrer cette enfance candide et son adolescence naïve, pour devenir Autre. Elle s’était liée à un homme, le peuple voulait d’elle la bénédiction de porter ses héritiers, cette figure fidèle et inébranlable aux côtés d’un roi tout puissant. Voilà son rôle, épouse et mère. Un devoir qui lui semblait effroyable, impossible. Le monde comptait sur elle pour accomplir une tâche épouvantable et colossale. Elle prit une profonde inspiration, essayant vainement de calmer les battements hystériques de son cœur. Elle savait ce qui l’attendait désormais. 

La nuit de noces. 

[escespace]

Comment:

Clearly entertaining! Bravo! I enjoyed reading this so much and I applaud how well grounded the medieval atmosphere is. Especially for the part of the contest to choose the court sorcerer. Every description of spells and characters in that fragment was delicately worded, I could see images of that scene very clearly in my head.

The first cut, where they explain Arthur's reaction to magic, was a success in terms of narrative, it really accentuated a good start for the rhythm and humor that the fic later presents.

I admit I get a little angry at Arthur as he continues to underestimate Merlin because HOW DARE HE?! However, I can never stay angry for long at the idiot, especially if he is as cheesy as in this fic. His pining is delicious, it doesn't go beyond the ooc but it remains in a princely internal gallantry worthy of fairy tales

And bravo for Merlin's displays of magic! I waited throughout the series for more scenes like the ones this fic describes. He deserved his "Wanda-switching-Scarlet-Witch" moment. (In his case, Merlin-switching-to-emrys) Demonstrating that he is pure power, a force of nature, the embodiment of his prophecies. There were hints of that in the series, but I imagine that, a he was still young, they didn't let him exploit his full potential. So it was very satisfying to read this fic where he freely overflows with power.

Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: Merlin (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin) Characters: Merlin (Merlin), Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Gaius (Merlin), Lancelot (Merlin), Morgana (Merlin), Mordred (Merlin), Gwen (Merlin), Geoffrey of Monmouth (Merlin), Gwaine (Merlin), Leon (Merlin), Elyan (Merlin), Percival (Merlin), Lot (Merlin), Original Male Character(s), don't worry no OC is super important Additional Tags: Magic Revealed, Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Post-Magic Reveal, Court Sorcerer Merlin (Merlin), BAMF Merlin (Merlin), BAMF Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), King Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Arthur Pendragon Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), magic legalization, Pining, Mutual Pining, Idiots in Love, they're so stupid guys, POV Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Emotionally Constipated Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Top Merlin (Merlin), Bottom Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), arthur likes that Merlin can beat him up I know this to be true in my heart, Everyone Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Canon-Typical Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, War, Magical War, Blood and Injury, Kissing, Sexual Tension, Mild Sexual Content, Undressing, Rough Kissing, Restraints, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Light Angst, ITS MOSTLY FLUFFY ACTUALLY Summary:

Arthur sputtered. “I-I’m not sure that’s wise, I mean, no — I —”

Merlin interrupted. “That sounds like a good idea to me! No offense, but you guys are pretty useless against magical opponents.” He threw a smile at Lancelot that the Knight returned. “I mean, what’s the use having the most powerful sorcerer in the world on your payroll if you don’t use him?”

-OR-

5 times Merlin tells Arthur he's the most powerful sorcerer in the world, and 1 time Arthur believes him.