#he was giving Merlin chores in that first shot for god’s sake
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cynthia39100 · 8 months ago
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Arthur had no right to look so gorgeous in The Labyrinth of Gedref when in half of it he was being a prat.
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hayleysstark · 5 years ago
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Queenie here! You want Merlin whump fic ideas? WELL, WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY SO SOONER?! Let me think...how about a one-shot of Merlin and his horse falling into a river and almost drowning, and Arthur and/or his knights try to revive him, Meanwhile Merlin has a weird astral-projection experience watching his friends mourn for him when they believe he died. He returns to his body shortly afterwards, mostly just to give his friends a scare, because he would be that bitch
I wish you would write a fic where… Send me an anymous (or not) summary of the fic you wish I would write. (maybe I will write a tidbit)
Ahh!! Queenie, you grace my inbox AGAIN ;A; what did I do to deserve you ;A; thank you so much for all the prompts!! I’ll get to the others you left as quick as I can, but I really want to take my time and drink up all the Delicious Whump lmao. This one probably turned out a bit more humorous I guess than you probably wanted, but it just,,,,,,, worked?? I hope you like it!! <3
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Merlin’s not cold anymore, not really, and that’s the first sign that something is wrong. The icy, rushing water of the freezing river still clings to his skin closer than his own soaking, too-big-and-heavy-and-wet tunic, and rolls in thin, frigid droplets down the side of his face, little streaking trails crisscrossing again and again and again over his stinging, prickling flesh, but he can’t actually feel it so much anymore, not really, and he’s not even shivering anymore, even though he’s pretty sure he should be, but he’s not—no more of those awful jerking, jolting shudders, so hard and harsh and wracking that it set his teeth rattling in his skull and his bones shaking under his skin.
Oh, and he can’t move.
That’s—that’s the second thing.
He can’t really move. Or speak. It’s like the second he got out of the river, his whole body sort of shut down on him, and he tries to open his lips, but he can’t. He can still taste the mud and muck of the dirty water in his mouth, though, and I should sit up and spit that out, he thinks, a bit muzzily, whenever I can sit up again.
Merlin is maybe not as worried about all of this as he should be.
“—Sire—” Leon sounds like he’s a hundred thousand miles away—or maybe that’s Merlin, maybe that’s on him, maybe he’s a hundred thousand miles away, or maybe he’s still stuck under the water— “—Sire, I don’t think he’s breathing.”
I think I’d know if I’m not breathing, thanks, Sir Leon, Merlin wants to say, but his mouth still won’t move, still won’t let him say it, so he gives up. He just hopes no evil sorcerers or bandits or anything like that comes running along anytime soon, because right now, he doesn’t think he’s got it in him to deal with the threat.
“—no—” Arthur’s eyes snap down to Merlin’s chest, and Merlin doesn’t know what he sees there, and he can’t look, because he still can’t really move very much, but he doesn’t think it can be anything good because all the color drains out of Arthur’s face in less than half a moment, and the next second, he’s ducked his head and jammed his ear to Merlin’s chest.
See? Nothing to worry about.
But there’s obviously something to worry about, because Arthur moves back, recoils, like Merlin is a snake about to strike, or some great, charging beast with teeth bared, and his broad hands shake within his black gloves as he reaches, slowly this time, hesitantly, to touch Merlin.
“—no—”
Oh, for God’s sake, I’m fine, Arthur, because Merlin is, if he’s being honest with himself, getting more than a little impatient at this point. He really doesn’t know why everybody’s making such a big fuss about all this. He’d know if he was dead. He’d—he’d feel it. Right? Also, he wouldn’t be here anymore, or at least he doesn’t think so. He’d go into some abyss or something, right? Some eternal oblivion. Something like that.
Well, he’d know if he was dead. He’s pretty sure of that.
Gwaine rushes forward now, clanking and clattering in all his armor, and goes to his knees in the grass beside Merlin. He knocks Arthur’s arm out of the way, and claps both hands over Merlin’s chest.
Oh, God, you lot are ridiculous. Maybe, when Merlin can finally move him again, he can do all of Albion and a favor, and hit them all ’round the head.
Gwaine presses both palms down, hard, on Merlin’s chest, like he thinks he can force the breath back into his lungs, force him to sit up and speak to them—you’d think they’d give me half a moment, Merlin thinks, a bit indignantly, if truth be told, I nearly died in that river and they probably just want me to stop lazing around and get on with my chores.
“—Merlin, come on,” Gwaine grunts, “come on, get up—”
Yeah. Exactly as he expected. Typical. Merlin would roll his eyes right now, if only he could. The can’t-move-a-muscle part of this experience is getting to be a real pain at this point.
“—he’s—” there’s a strange sort of hitch in Leon’s voice, “—he’s gone, Gwaine—”
“No!” Gwaine screams out the word at Leon, screams like Merlin has never heard him scream before, like Merlin never even knew he could. “No, he’s fucking not! He just—he just needs—” he pushes down on Merlin’s chest again.
The first flicker of real concern flares up inside Merlin then. He’s still at least eighty-eight percent sure he’s not dead, which is actually a bit of a higher estimate than usual, but he doesn’t Gwaine to worry. He doesn’t anyone to worry. He doesn’t want to put them through any pain. He tries to sit up then—really, this time, he puts some actual effort into it and everything—but his body remains stubbornly stuck on the ground, limp and lifeless as a little girl’s doll.
And everyone’s around Merlin, then, all of them—Leon and Percival and Elyan and even Arthur, over there, a little bit behind Gwaine, and everyone looks—so sad—
No, don’t, Merlin wants to tell them, don’t do that, don’t look like that, please, don’t look like that, I didn’t mean to make you lot look like that but he can’t, he can’t, it’s like he’s got Gaius’ stitches sewn up in the space where his lips divide.
Gwaine is crying, actually crying, tears pouring down his twisted, scrunched-up face, and one fist pressed tight to his own mouth, and Percival squeezes at Merlin’s cold, slack fingers with his own enormous, warm hand, and Leon, face tight and very pale, lightly brushes something off the side of Merlin’s face—leftover muck from the river bottom, if he had to make a guess about things—and Elyan says, in a cracked voice that doesn’t sound a thing like Elyan at all, “We should bring him back home”, and Percival nods, and Arthur—
Arthur looks like somebody had just ripped Excalibur through his hands, and stabbed the blade straight through his chest. Like when he saw his mother for the first time, and discovered the truth about his birth. Like when he killed the unicorn, and had to stand by and watch the people suffer for his own mistake.
“—no—” Arthur says, softly, softer than Merlin has ever heard him, and his voice doesn’t sound a thing like him at all either, just like Elyan, and Merlin has half a moment to think, no fucking way, I’m not putting Arthur through any more pain ever again—
Merlin sits up.
“Oh, God, finally.” It’s the first thing to leave his lips, but he thinks, maybe, it might not have been the best choice.
Everyone’s staring at him. Percival’s hand has gone still around his own, and Gwaine’s fist drifts down by an inch or two to reveal his gaping mouth. Leon actually jumps back a little. Elyan’s brown eyes are enormous in his face.
And Arthur—
Arthur looks like he just met his mother again.
“Sorry,” Merlin says, and the words tear at the back of his scorching throat. He winces. All right, note to self, don’t go making a habit of swallowing dirty river water. He looks out over the rushing, winding stream, but it stretches empty out as far as the eye can see. “I—uh—I think I lost the horse,” he says, feebly.
“God, Merlin,” Elyan says, “we thought we’d lost you.”
Gwaine practically tramples over Arthur to get to Merlin, and wrap him up in a rib-cracking hug. Merlin reflexively lifts his arms to return the gesture, but his eyes flicker over to Arthur.
Who still has yet to move.
Merlin swallows hard.
“Let the man breathe, Gwaine,” Leon chastises, and hauls his fellow knight back by one armored shoulder. “Honestly.”
Gwaine makes an indignant little noise in the back of his throat, but he backs off. Merlin doesn’t think he’s ever been more grateful for Leon in his life.
And then Arthur surges forward, arm out—
—and he hits Merlin on the back of the head.
“Ow!” Merlin’s hand jerks up, on instinct, to his hair.
“Idiot,” Arthur says, viciously, “don’t do that again.”
“Oh,” Merlin says, dryly, “yes, I planned all that. My best work, if I do say so—”
Arthur hits him again.
“Ow—!”
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