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silkling · 4 years ago

Note

Au prompts

No rush, just throwin some thoughts out

I really like your falsely accused au, any more of that would be consumed as if it were the finest chocolate

(More g1 ish) Prowl is SpecOps in some way not just a strat-tac mech (love me some BAMF Prowl)

Prowl has a secret identity, and his pseudonym is that of a reknown orchestral composer. Meanwhile Jazz thinks Prowl knows jack sh*t about music....maybe Prowl writes him a symphony as a surprise anniversary (could be bonding or maybe a post war milestone) gift? (This is indulgent fluff of mine that i think about but never actually write XD)

No worries, friend! The falsely accused AU will return soon! I’m debating whether I should make a long fic for the next reveal or keep it short like I did the first one. I plan to have things in this AU change the canon at large, so prepare for that. :P

As for your other prompts, how about I mash ‘em together? :D

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Prowl hadn’t always been involved in battle tactics. When he’d come online, he had realized that his tac-net was good for organizing and structuring and controlling anything large and complicated. Most bots assumed that meant a battlefield, or something else to that degree. It was why he’d initially joined the Praxus Enforcer Corps. He had excelled there, and his tac-net had helped him cut crime rates down to a tiny fraction of what they’d once been. But…after he’d done that, and his programs and procedures were in place and settled, things had calmed and he’d had nothing to do. He had hated it. So, in an effort to break up the monotony, he’d gone to view an orchestra performance. After that, he’d been hooked. He’d watched the conductor control and guide the flow of the music and the musicians, and his processor had roared to life.

The next day, he’d handed in his formal resignation from the Enforcers, and had been allowed to leave with full honors. His Chief knew he hadn’t been happy, knew he’d been stagnating. Highwire had only wished him luck before she’d sent him off. Then, Prowl had devoted himself to music. He learned all he could, and slowly, agonizingly slowly, he’d managed to work his way from a music writer, to a small time musician, to a small time conductor. And then he had had his first show as a proper orchestra conductor, small and non-essential as it was, and his tac-net had settled and quieted, it’s systems purring as it allowed him to direct the flow of the orchestra with perfect precision. He hadn’t known at the time, but his show had been watched by one of the most well-known and oldest conductors on Cybertron. After his show, Treble had approached him and introduced himself, and offered to take Prowl on as a protege.

He had agreed, and his next show had been bigger. He’d written the music himself, the orchestra he was conducting was much larger, and Treble had used his vast influence to promote it. That was the first time he’s taken to the stage as Baton. He had decided shortly after he’d begun training under Treble that he didn’t want to use his real name when on stage. He enjoyed his privacy, and if all of Cybertron knew Prowl as a conductor he wouldn’t get much peace. So, on stage, he was Baton, and as Baton he also used a temporary paint to change his colors and used some fabric to drape over shoulders and hips. It was enough to disguise him.

And to his delight, his first show had been a massive hit. His tac-net had enjoyed this even more, the larger scale giving him more to work with, more to control and direct, and he reveled in it. Then, after the show, Treble had revealed to the audience that Baton had written all the music that had been played that night, and with that single performance his career was set. Over the following vorns, he’d grown more and more popular, and he’d eventually finished his tutelage under Treble. As time passed, he’d quickly become the most well known conductor on Cybertron. His orchestra had grown too, and had become known as the largest on the planet. Prowl, or rather Baton, led a orchestra of over a thousand mechs and femmes through songs he himself wrote. He had loved every minute of it.

Prowl wasn’t an emotional mech. In fact, emotion was something he struggled with. He thrived on order and structure, and emotions were not organized or structured, but music…music was. And music was also emotional. Through music, he had been able to give his emotions the order and structure he desperately needed in order to express them properly. Prowl had loved his life as Baton. It wasn’t grand, and he didn’t serve much of a higher purpose, but he brought joy to his orchestra, and to his audience, and for him that was enough.

But then…the whispers started. Now, Prowl wasn’t a fool. Most mechs who hadn’t been involved in the inner workings of Cybertron would claim that Megatron had risen from practically nothing and started the war on on his own. He knew that wasn’t true. Megatron had risen from a well-established foundation, a foundation that had built itself long before he gunmetal warlord had even given thought to revolution and war. No, the war had started millennia before the rise of the Decepticons. It had started on the quiet whispers among the lower castes, it had started on the stirrings of the beaten down and the starving. It had started at the rising tide of outrage and horror in face of the Senate’s cruel and extreme punishments for any tiny hit to their authority. It had started in the discontent at the tighter and tighter stranglehold the Senate had began to employ as they grabbed for and more power for themselves, and more and more of the mechs in lower society suffered and died. No, the war didn’t start with Megatron. Megatron was merely the catalyst. If he hadn’t come along and done what he had, Prowl had no doubts that a full scale revolt would have occurred. The fuel for the war had already soaked into the roots of Cybertron. Megatron had only been the spark that lit the blaze,

Prowl had heard the whispers, the growing discontent. He’d seen how the civil unrest got worse with each passing stellar cycle. He knew it was only a matter of time before something in his life changed again. So, when Covert approached him, he hadn’t been surprised. She told him she was the head of an independent group of Special Ops bots, unaffiliated with any political group and who worked only to keep Cybertron as a whole safe and stable. They weren’t much liked by the Senate, since they were not under any mech’s control, but the Senate also couldn’t do anything about them since, apparently, the group had been operating as they had since before the Senate itself had even existed. Covert had told him she’d seen some of his shows, seen the way he directed the orchestra, and she had dug in and found his public records as Prowl. She’d read about what he’d done as an Enforcer, had read about what information there was available on his tac-net, and realized she needed him. She told him that the civil unrest was growing worse, that things were even more dire than they appeared on the surface. That she wanted him to join her, to train him as an agent and a spy, and she wanted him to use his tac-net and his other abilities to help keep Cybertron safe.

Prowl had floundered. He understood why she was doing it. His logic centers agreed that her points were sound, that it would be best for everyone’s future if he went with her. His tac-net ran probability outcomes, spitting out percentages at him of what would happen if he accepted her offer, what would happen if he didn’t, what would happen if the unrest grew to proper war and what would happen if war could not be contained or controlled. The numbers weren’t good. His logic centers had screamed even louder at him to accept. His emotional cortex had protested. He didn’t want to leave his orchestra, his music. But…he was needed. As much as he loved what he was now…he couldn’t let others suffer if he had a way to help. So, with a heavy spark, he had taken her hand.

The next day had come, and Prowl had announced to the world as Baton that he was temporarily leaving the music scene. Baton was having issues with his health, and until they were resolved he would not write music or conduct again. And so with the well-wishes of fans and his musicians alike, Baton faded into the background of Prowl’s spark, and Operative had taken his place. Once again, he had had to disguise himself. This time, he’d taken more permanent measures, a dark blue visor and a battle mask that covered the lower half of his face. A radical paint change, and even alterations to his armor itself to make him sleeker and slimmer. Covert herself had trained him, and shortly thereafter he had gone on his first mission. Prowl had found he had a natural aptitude for spy work. He was small, quick, and stealthy, and he had a knack for processing, deconstructing, and disseminating information. It didn’t take long for him to become known as one of the most accomplished SpecOps agents on the planet. It also wasn’t long before he took his first life. He still remembered that mech’s face. It haunted him, in ways his subsequent kills didn’t. After that, he had also been sent on the occasional assassination, though his work as a spy always came first.

And then, just has he had predicted…war.

It had erupted swiftly and violently, and it wasn’t long before his unit had been forced to make a choice. Most of the agents had allowed themselves to be folded into the ranks of Autobot SpecOps. Prowl, or rather Operative, had not. He had continued to act independently, knowing that if he joined the Autobots officially and his affiliation was known in the event of possible capture by Decepticons, it would make things worse, so he’d remained officially neutral. Though, most of his work had been for the benefit of Cybertron’s neutrals and civilians, with information tossed to the Autobots occasionally.

It was his acting in this way that allowed him to prevent a larger tragedy from occurring in Praxus. He had had to fight Soundwave to get to the information, and he’d taken out all the mech’s cassettes and shattered his optics in the resulting fight, and he had managed to get the information about the attack on his home city. He hadn’t been able to stop it, but he’d sent the information along with a warning ahead to the city itself and to the Autobots. It had allowed Praxus to evacuate all its Youth Centers and even a fair amount of its civilian citizens before the city was destroyed. He hadn’t been able to save his home from being razed to the ground, but his actions had saved the next generation of Praxus’s children.

It was shortly after that that Covert, now head of Autobot SpecOps, had approached him again. The head of the Autobot Tactical Division had recently been offlined, and the faction was starting to buckle and struggle in their fights. Prowl had known what he had to do. So, once more, Operative had retreated to the shadows of his spark, and Prowl had stepped forward as himself for the first time since his days as an Enforcer. Covert had taken him directly to the Prime, where she’d laid out his life story and explained the situation. Together, the three of the, had created two files for him. One, that detailed his life as Prowl and as an Enforcer, and everything he’d accomplished as one, which would be open for public access. The other, which contained the life he’d lived and the things he’d done as Operative, would only be a accessible to Prime and himself, and the head of SpecOps with previous permission from the Prowl of Optimus. Baton would not be put into any files at his request, since at the time he’d been a civilian. He wanted to keep his happiest times to himself.

And then, Covert had been offlined in a mission, and her second in command had taken her place. That was when Prowl had met Jazz. Their initial meeting had been….less than stellar.

(“So, yer the head of Tactics? Gotta say, I’m surprised an Enforcer managed to do anythin’ worth much to a military group like this one. Didn’t think workin’ petty criminals on the streets would translate to bein’ able to lead proper soldiers.”

Rage, quick and burning.

“And I am surprised a mech as carefree as yourself is capable of leading a group like SpecOps. Doesn’t that require delicacy?”)

After that, their relationship had been…rocky. It didn’t help that Jazz couldn’t access Prowl’s sealed file. Not that the mech necessarily knew the file was about Prowl, he just knew it involved the tactician in some way. Still, it had taken them a few vorns before they’d been able to patch up their relationship and work things out. And after that point…things had simply grown. Prowl had come to realize that Jazz was an easy mech to get along with. He was pleasant and adaptable, and he didn’t push beyond the Praxian’s comfort zone. He was also fiercely intelligent, and Prowl had been delighted to learn that the saboteur was actually a rather brilliant tactician in his own right. In fact, because Jazz understood emotions and the inner workings of a bots’s mind better than Prowl, it wasn’t uncommon for him to go to the Polyhexian for advice on his plans if he felt it was needed. It was also why he never took it too personally if Jazz ever criticized his proposed plans in meetings.

Things had kept moving forward, and forward, until…

(“Ya look real pretty under the stars, there, Prowler.”

“I believe I told you not to call me that.”

A frame, settling next to him.

“Ain’t gonna stop me, mech.”

“No, I suppose not.”

Silence, then a breath.

“Can I kiss ya, Prowl?”

More silence. A huff, and a smile.

“I would like that very much, Jazz.”)

Their relationship had taken work. They had been friends first, which certainly helped, but they were both mechs of secrets. Jazz’s secrets were a byproduct of his work, and Prowl’s a byproduct of his life. It had taken time for them to accept and understand that some such secrets are okay. Eventually, they had worked it out, and their bond had only grown. Prowl was startled at just how easy it was to love Jazz, just how easy it was to give his spark to the other mech and not fear it being hurt. Jazz was…a soft lover. He was gentle and doting and so tender it almost made Prowl ache. One of his favorite things was curling up into Jazz’s chest, the spy’s hands smoothing over his doorwings as they simply enjoyed each other’s closeness and affection.

It was peaceful. A type of peace he hadn’t known since before Operative. Perhaps, one he’d never really known at all. They were strong together, with Prowl as the Autobot SIC and Jazz the TIC. They had the trust of their Prime, and the respect of their soldiers. The Decepticons hadn’t had the upper hand in centuries. So, their next step was only logical, given how rare joy was in these days, and how little they knew of the certainty of their own future.

(“My Spark and your spark, forever as one.”

“Bonded together, until the stars wink out and the world collapses.”

“In this life and the next, I am yours, as you are mine.”

“For all of eternity, I shall remain at your side, and you shall remain at mine.”)

They bonded. Under the eyes of Optimus and with the approval of their Prime, they bound their very sparks, tying themselves together for the rest of time. They had asked to keep the information secret. Only the Officers on Optimus’s personal team knew. And so that way they stayed, until the war forced them from their home. Prowl hadn’t ever expected to wake, after the crash. But he did. And Jazz, too. Everyone had. So, the war continued, only now it was on a small organic planet rich with energon. Prowl was only slightly surprised that the scale and brutality of the war was much, much less here.

But then….things went wrong. They had been on Earth for several of the planet’s years when the DJD had come. Apparently, they were only there to drop off a traitor for Megatron to deal with. But then Tarn had decided he wanted to do his Lord one more favor, and…Jazz’s team had been captured on a supply run. The rest of the base quickly gave up hope. No one wanted to fight the DJD, and even if they did no one was sure there was even anything left of their comrades to rescue. Prowl knew, though. He still felt the echo of Jazz’s spark brushing his.

So, for the first time in mega-cycles…Operative roared to the forefront. Prowl returned to the room he shared with Jazz, opening the secret compartment behind his desk that not even Jazz had been aware off. In it, was everything he needed to become Operative again, as well as anything he had kept that had to do with Operative as a whole. He removed the visor from its case, clicking it onto his face, and his battle mask slid out in three pieces from the armor at his chin and cheeks to cover his mouth and nose. He grabbed the pain from the small compartment, covering his current colors in quick, sure movements. Then, he put everything back and retreated to the shadows, leaving the base and driving off.

He knew where the DJD’s ship was. He knew how they operated. They wouldn’t take Jazz’s team to Megatron until they had worthwhile information to go along with it. He also knew that Tarn was the only one who was on board, having done preliminary probing earlier that day. Now, it was time to act. He drove in silence, until he finally arrived at his location. It didn’t take him long to find a way into the ship. It was one of the external vents, usually used for pumping contaminated air out of the ship. If he was careful, he could force it open and sneak in.

Once he had entered the ship, he stuck to corners and shadows, doorwings angled upwards and sensors dialed up to their max in order to pick up the minute charge that signaled where any cameras were. Using that, the was able to avoid detection, until he got to the brig. He saw the team there, but more importantly, Jazz was there. They were all a little roughed up, and he knew he had to hurry. He had already sent a short message back to base informing them of his mission and telling them to come for retrieval. He knew he’d get into some trouble for his rogue actions, but at the moment he didn’t care.

Looking over the team, he realized his initial plan wouldn’t work. He had hoped to sneak them back through the ship, but they were all injured in some manner or another and he could tell they wouldn’t be able to pull their processors together enough to be as stealthy as they needed to be. Which left Plan B. Explosives. He pulled one of his favorite explosive disks from his subspace, setting the timer and sticking it to the far wall of the brig. He activated it, then hurried to open the cell door. At his reveal, three sets of tired optics locked onto him. Immediately, recognition flickered. They knew Operative from the stories, even if none of them had ever met him in person. He was a SpecOps legend, after all.

He gestured quickly, making a motion to where the explosive was ticking, and hurried in to help Jazz up. He was the most injured of the three, and Mirage quickly moved to his other side to help keep the saboteur steady. The four mech group hurried as fast as they were able out of the cell, and the explosive went off. It took out the ship wall, and then they were dragging themselves to freedom. The impact with the ground was rough, and he knew their time was limited. Tarn would be coming to investigate soon, and he had to buy time until the retrieval team arrived. He managed to get the three SpecOps mechs settled against a large boulder, just as he heard heavy pede steps approaching behind him.

He straightened, turning around and lifting his gaze to meet Tarn optics-to-visor.

“So,” Tarn hummed, tilting his head. “The fabled Operative makes his return. You know, it was always assumed you’d perished before the war left Cybertron.” He said smoothly.

He said nothing, expression unreadable behind mask and visor. His posture gave nothing away, either. Under the light of the sun, his deep blue and burnt copper colors seemed to absorb the light. His wings were held at a neutral angle, though they were tilted just so to pick up any signals or changes in the air. His hands were folded behind his back, and he merely stared at the larger mech in front of him.

There was a long beat of silence, and then it was broken by the sound of approaching engines.

Neither mech looked away.

He heard the sound of transformation behind him, and heard Ironhide’s gruff voice speaking to the three downed Autobots. It was as he heard movement indicating they were being pulled away that Tarn finally shifted. It drew the attention of the retrieval team, who up to that point had been more focused on getting their comrades to safety and had been ignoring the SpecOps mechs attempts to make them look at the other two bots present. He could feel the static of Ironhide’s surprise on his doorwing sensors, and he heard Hound let out a frazzled exclamation of surprise.

“Who-“ Ironhide’s began, but Jazz was the one who cut him off.

“Operative. That’s Operative.”

“Who?”

“The greatest spy Cybertron has ever known.” Tarn said, voice oily and dark. “Responsible for revealing Senator Crankshaft’s illegal activities, for breaking up the slave trading ring in Uraya, and most known for stealing the information from the Decepticons that allowed Praxus to save its Sparklings and Younglings.”

There was silence, before Trailbreaker’s voice could be heard. “Holy scrap, one mech did all that?”

“That, and much, much more.” Jazz spoke, voice rough. “Operative is a legend, ‘Hide. And he may not be one of ours, but he is on our side.”

At that, he merely dipped his head in acknowledgment of his bonded’s words. He still didn’t remove his gaze from Tarn.

“Well, and enlightening as this was,” Tarn spoke, taking a step towards the Autobots. “I’d like my prisoners back now, though I certainly wouldn’t mind bringing more Autobot helms to my Lord.” he all but purred, one servo lifting.

It was then that he moved. The Praxian flared his wings, and the armor in his back shifted and made way for hidden boosters. They flared to life, and he sped forward faster than anyone could react, grabbing a length of metal wire from his sub space as he blurred towards Tarn. He snatched the ‘Con’s wrist, dropping his weight down to force Tarn over, and as he moved he slid between the larger mech’s legs while looping the wire around the caught wrist. In the same movement, he slammed his other elbow into the back of Tarn’s knee, forcing it to buckle, and then he twisted and threw his weight, tossing the purple mech to the ground with a heavy, hard impact.

Before he could move, he was rolling on his heels, a wrist flicking and sending a sharp knife into his palm from the sheath hidden in his forearm, and he used the hand still holding the wire to quickly loop the rest of its length around Tarn’s neck. Hand freed, he grabbed the arm the Decepticon was trying to use to get up, twisting it and forcing him onto his front with one arm trapped under his own weight, and pressed a knee to his spinal strut. He finished it by pressing the tip of the sharp blade to the back of Tarn’s head, right into a chink in the heavy armor and against the fragile protoform underneath. Like this, it would be all to easy to force the blade forward and straight into Tarn’s processor. It would kill him in an instant, and it was a maneuver he could pull off before Tarn would be able to throw him off, since positioned like he was, he could feel every shift and tense in the larger mech’s frame. The whole thing had taken barley 10 seconds.

“You will be taking no prisoners today.” he said tonelessly. “You will leave. I will not hesitate to offline your should you attempt otherwise.”

There was silence, and then a low chuckle rose from the trapped ‘Con. “My, I am surprised. It’s been a long time since I’ve been so soundly beaten. It seemed rumors of your skill weren’t exaggerated. Though, what can I expect, from the mech who offlined Sentinel Prime?”

He pressed the knife down harder, engine rumbling in warning as he tried to ignore the gasps from the Autobots behind them.

Tarn clearly got the message. “Alright, little mech. I’m leaving.” he agreed.

He stayed where he was for only a moment, then shifted off the larger mech. As Tarn stood, the blade flashed around him to slice through the wire, and then Operative was moving away.

“Go.” the spy stated, voice cold.

Tarn only chuckled once more, turning a speculative look on to the group in front him, before he boarded his ship. A few moments later, it took off.

“Did you really offline Sentinel Prime?” It was Hound.

He turned, then tilted his head. “I did.”

“Why?” Mirage’s voice was rough, his tone demanding.

“Sentinel was corrupt.” To everyone’s surprise, it was Jazz who spoke. “He not only was aware of the Senate’s actions before the war, he approved and even took part himself. He let the power of the Matrix and the Primacy go to his helm, and he stopped protectin’ and leadin’ Cybertron like he should’ve.” he rasped. “Prime told me. He said Sentinel’s death wasn’t the tragedy the media made it out to be. The Matrix showed him some o’ the stuff the old mech did, and apparently it would be enough to disgust even the Unmaker himself.”

There was shocked silence, and Trailbreaker’s voice was weak. “Seriously?”

“Sentinel Prime was not a true Prime. He was chosen by the Senate and by the Prime before him, not by the Matrix. Before Optimus Prime, there had not been a true Prime since the last of the Thirteen.” Operative revealed.

“How do you know that?” Mirage demanded.

His question was met with a stony silence.

The Towers mech bristled, looking ready to say something else, and then Ironhide’s cleared his throat. “Right. Well. We gotta get these guys back to base.” He turned to the Praxian. “What about you?”

“My mission is done. I will take my leave now.” he said. Then paused. “You will find your second in command back at your base.” And then he slipped backwards into the shadows of a nearby cliff and was gone.

“Wait, how the Pit did he even know it was Prowl who’s missing and sent that message?”

“It’s Operative, Hound.” Skids, the final member of the missing team, sounded tired as he spoke. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows every Autobot and Deception secret.”

========================

Back at base, the missing team had been patched up and were recovering in the medbay. It was midnight, and Mirage and Skids were deep in recharge. Jazz was not. He was waiting. Soon, a mech slipped from the shadows, blue and copper colors had changed to black and white, and the visor and mask were both gone. Jazz turned to stare are his bondmate approached, his optics unreadable behind his visor.

“So.” he murmured. “Yer Operative. I’m guessing that’s what’s in that file you never let me get into. Did Covert know?”

“She was the one who recruited me.” Prowl answered. His spark felt heavy and he couldn’t meet Jazz’s gaze. “I’m sorry.”

Jazz hummed, going quiet. “Not gonna lie, Prowler. I’m a little hurt.” he sighed. “But…I get it.” Prowl turned startled optics to his mate. “I’m SpecOps too, remember? I know how important secrets are. Plus, I can understand why you wouldn’t say anythin’. The war needs Prowl the tactician, not Operative the spy.” he mused. “Sure, Operative would help big time, but the Autobots can survive without him, we can’t survive without you, Prowl.”

The Praxian was quiet for a moment, and then his doorwings slumped in relief and he reached out to curl his hand around Jazz’s fingers. “I’m relieved. I was worried you would wish to have nothing to do with me.” he whispered.

Jazz softened. His visor slid away, revealing shining, open optics. “Never, lover.” he purred. “‘Until the stars wink out and the world collapses’, remember? Now pull up a chair and sit. I get the feelin’ you need the closeness as much as I do.”

Prowl did just as Jazz asked, once he’d gotten settled, he folded one arm on the edge of the medical berth, resting his helm on it and once more curling the fingers of his other hand into Jazz’s.

That night, the two bonded mechs recharged just like that, assured once more of their love and devotion for one another.

========================

A couple weeks later, and Jazz had been released from the medbay, given strict orders to finish his recovery in his room. He was on medical leave until such time that Ratchet said otherwise. Prowl had an plan, though. The anniversary of their bonding was today, and he knew his mate loved music of all kinds. He was ready to share his final and more treasured secret with the spy. But he wanted to do more than just tell him the truth. He wanted to show Jazz exactly how much he meant to him. He had a plan for that. He had spent the past many, many days writing a piece of music for the first time since he’d been forced to leave his life as Baton behind. Once he’d finished, he’d just needed a way to play it.

He didn’t have a Cybertronian orchestra, and the few Cybertronian instruments available wouldn’t be enough for a piece of this scale, which left…an Earth orchestra. And luckily for him, he knew exactly what do to. A couple years back, Prowl had rescued a famous human conductor, and had offered him a ride to his home. It was on the way he’d ended up revealing he too had once been a conductor, as his spark had been aching to reminisce with someone who understood, and the two had bonded. Zachary, the human, had been ecstatic when he learned that Prowl wrote his own music. He had told that Autobot that if he ever wrote something again, he would be glad and honored to have his orchestra play it.

Prowl had taken him up on the offer the moment he’d finished piece. They had organized it, and Prowl had even written in a piece for a Cybertronian instrument to be included, which he himself would play. It had taken days of practice but Zachary, the orchestra, and Prowl had managed to play the full song. It wasn’t anything like a Cybertronian symphony, but…Prowl had a feeling Jazz would love it all the same. They’d recorded the full piece for Prowl to take with him, and the Autobot had promised to write Zachary a song as well when the human had come to him after the performance, teary eyed and awed.

Now, it was the morning of their anniversary, and Prowl rose first. He had to get to work, but he knew Jazz was still bed bound. He simply wrote quick note, and left his gift on Jazz’s bedside before leaving. All day, his processor raced and raced. Would Jazz like the gift? Would he recognize that it was a Baton piece even if the instrumentation was different? Did he even know who Baton was? For once, Prowl found his work to be lacking, and by the time he was heading back to their room that night his logic center and emotional cortex were clashing horribly.

The door to his room opened as he stopped in front of it, and closed when he stepped inside. Immediately, blue optics slid to the form on the berth. Jazz was staring at him, visor gone and gaze intense. The mech slowly shifted out of the berth, and Prowl was frozen where he stood. Jazz approached him, and then he pulled the Praxian into a hard kiss.

When they separated several moments later, Jazz’s voice shook. “Did you know,” he whispered. “That Baton was my first crush? I saw his first performance, before his name was known to the public and before Treble took him under wing. I’ve loved him ever since. When he took a break, and then the war happened, I always figured he’d been offlined.” he whispered. “Then I met you.” he grinned, his expression so open and adoring it made Prowl’s spark ache. “And you became my first true love.” he leaned in to kiss his mate fiercely more before pulling back. “You know what that means, my spark?”

“What?” Prowl asked, voice soft.

“It means,” He purred. “That I’ve always loved you, since the moment I first saw you, even if I didn’t know you were you.”

Prowl blinked, then laughed, staticky and relieved. “You liked the music, then?” he asked. He hoped Jazz understood what he had been saying with the symphony. He’d written it from the spark.

Jazz just grinned, kissing him firmly once more before dragging him back to the berth. “It was perfect, lover. Just perfect.” he smiled. He got them both settled on the berth, tucked in close to one another. “And Prowl?”

“Hm?”

“I love you too.”

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dreamescapeswriting · 4 years ago

Text

Seductive Tendencies ~ JHS [Request]

↬↬↬Word Count: 2.2K

↬↬↬Genre: Fluffy

↬↬↬Pairing: Hoseok x reader

↬↬↬Warnings: None

↬↬↬A/N: I know you asked for a reaction post for this one but I couldn’t seem to do it without all of them being the same so I hope this is okay instead xxx

You'd always been seen at the quiet nerdy one wherever you went, even inf school you were the shy girl that did as she was told and never spoke back to the teacher. You never stepped out of line and nothing changed even after you left school and joined the BigHit staff, you were just an outfit stylist that worked with a bunch of BigHit employees for years and everything had been fine. You faded into the background, no one bothered you, you kept yourself to yourself but it all changed when you were switched from GFriend's team over to the BTS one and you met Jung Hoseok. Jung Hoseok the man who made your heart pound, your mind race and your hands sweaty, he made you feel like you were floating whenever you were around him but he'd never noticed you before. The only times you'd ever spoken were when you had to style him for a music video, a photo shoot or for other events that you helped with.

"You're drooling," One of the stylists - Mieko - said when she came into the changing rooms that morning, you rolled your eyes at her and went back to sketching the outfit you'd been working on. As well as working as a stylist you were taking night classes to become a designer, it had been a dream of yours since you were a teenager.

"Just go up and talk to him, we've all seen the way you look at him." She dropped down beside you on the small leather sofa and stared over at Hoseok, he was sitting in a makeup chair laughing along with the makeup artist who was doing his makeup.

"He doesn't even know I'm alive, I'll stick to my fading into the background. It worked great before." She sighed and laid her head down on your shoulder. Mieko had been a close friend since you started working there, she'd always been able to back you up on ideas when you didn't have the courage to speak up about them and she was always there when you needed her. You thought of her like an older sister and it was nice to have that kind of connection with someone,

"Besides, he likes girl like that," You pointed your pen over at one of the other stylists who was wearing a short mini skirt with a crop top on it, scribbled on the top were the words - 'Send me dog pics'.

"He likes girls who are confident, smart, pretty, and funny...Everything that I'm not." You mumbled looking at Hoseok, he'd never so much as even glanced in your direction before.

"Well then, we're going to have to give you a makeover, bring out that inner confident you that I know is somewhere inside, and you're already intelligent, gorgeous and hilarious so we have nothing else to work on." You jabbed her with the pen as she made your cheeks heat up from the sudden compliments,

"I mean it. This weekend you're cancelling any existing plans and we're going to shop until we drop - or until I decide we have enough, then we're going to find the confident version of you and force her out of you!" People turned around to see what the yelling was about and you groaned putting your head down and going back to the sketching that you were doing.

"Y/n! You're needed on set," You smiled at Mieko and handed her your book,

"Take this, and I'll agree to shop but not to a makeover." She looked at you as you walked away, she couldn't believe how blind you were to Hoseok's attraction to you. He was always gazing after you, watching you when you were in such deep concentration you thought no one was looking, lost in your own world as you drew on a pad of paper. She was going to have a lot of fun with this one and she knew that once she made you over, Hoseok would find it strenuous to hide his feelings longer than he had been hiding.

The heels you were wearing hit the floor and send shivers down your spine, you'd spent the entire weekend at Mieko's planning and getting yourself ready for the Monday and here you were. Walking down the halls of BigHit going to find Jimin and Namjoon to get them ready, they had a music video shoot in an hour and they were the only ones who needed alterations on their outfits. You were about to round the corner when you bumped straight into Jimin, his hands grasped onto your arms to stop you from falling and he looked you up and down. Usually, he wouldn't even look you in the eye but today was different, he was checking you out and biting down on his lip.

"I need you in changing room 4 please." You said to Jimin as he finally let go of you but he was still staring at you, as if he was trying to figure out who you were.

"Y/n?" You nodded and he smirked at you while nodding his head,

"I'll go wherever you want me baby," You scoffed at him and pushed him in the direction of the changing room you needed him in before going to find Namjoon. Knowing him he would be locked up in his studio working right until the last minute of you needing him. You knocked on the door and heard his usual annoyed tone, he always got annoyed when someone walked in on him.

"I need you in the changing room," You said as you pushed the door open, his eyes locked onto you and the red dress you were wearing. It clung to every curvature of your body perfectly and you looked like you could have been posing for a billboard.

"R-Right, yeah...Changing room...Which er... Which changing room?" You giggled softly at how nervous he seemed to have gotten. You hadn't expected any of this but it was boosting your confidence a lot more and you suddenly felt like a new person, you weren't the shy stylist you were the confident you that Mieko told you was there.

"Four," You laughed walking out of the studio and towards the changing rooms to find Jimin waiting anxiously for you, he was pacing around when you walked inside and you frowned.

"You alright? It's just some alterations Jimin, we've done it a million times before." You grabbed your tape measure and dropped down on your knees in front of him, running the small white tape measure up the side of his leg and making sure the length was perfect.

The whole day had been filled with the boys randomly flirting with you, offering to take you out to lunch or to buy you something. It had been completely different to what you were used to but there was a small part of you that loved the attention, it was nice having someone to talk to at work and the playful banter was nice too. Hoseok had bee silent throughout the whole day though, usually, he was the bright smiley one but today he'd been walking around with a glare on his face and whenever one of the boys would go up to you he seemed to walk out of the room - as if seeing them flirting with you bothered him.

"Why haven't I noticed you before?" A male worker asked as you stood in the line to buy some food, you stared at him. He has a reputation in the BigHit building for sleeping with every stylist and makeup artist, breaking hearts wherever he went and not caring about what he did.

"I've been working here longer than you, maybe you've been blind." You didn't even want to give him the time of day after he broke Mieko's heart but he was continuing to try and flirt with you while you waited in line.

"No, I think you're new. I would have noticed someone of your..." He sucked in a breath while he tried to think of a word, looking you up and down while he did so.

"Attractiveness, I bet they've been hiding you away from me, telling you stories." He stepped closer to you, his chest pressed against your back as he wrapped his arms around your waist.

Hoseok stared from across the room the grip on his coffee cup getting so tight that the cupboard broke and spilt all over the table,

"Ugh- Fuck - Hoseok!" Yoongi said ready to get angry at the boy for knocking coffee everywhere when he noticed Hoseok was already gone and storming over to you. Hobi couldn't think straight, all he wanted to do was punch the guy for touching you when you clearly didn't even want to speak to him.

"Oh Hey, tell Namjoon I'll be up - Ugh." The guy was grunting as Hoseok punched him in the nose,

"Hosoek!" You yelled but he grabbed your wrist and pulled you out of the line and out of the canteen towards the halls of the building,

"What are you doing? Where are we going?" You questioned but he ignored you and pushed you into one of the small storage rooms on the bottom floor, blocking the door with his back.

"What are YOU doing? You're all dressed up and flirting with everyone...Where did your glasses go? I haven't seen you sketch all day..." You stared at him as he listed off the things you'd never knew he noticed before,

"I've been working - I got contacts, why do you care if I'm flirting." You whispered back to him, his face turned a red colour as he realised how close to one another you were. You had barely any room to move inside the small space he'd dragged you into,

"I care because you're flirting with everyone, everyone is looking at you like you're some kind of prize for them to claim and you're eating it all up." You were still left confused as he gave you his reason for caring about your flirting then it hit you, he was jealous.

"Don't you like this me Hobi?" Your voice came out seductive and low as he bit down on his lip, you did a small turn in the room to show off the dress.

"Don't you find it hot?" You whispered in his ear, you had no idea where the sudden need to be like this for him came from but you liked it, you took his hands and placed them on your waist,

"I did this for you, you know...I just wanted you to look at me and find me hot." He hissed as he felt you press your chest against his, it was taking everything inside of him not to grab you and make out with you right there.

"I already found you hot," He groaned, you pulled back from him and stared into his eyes, suddenly the shy you was back and you were staring up at your crush.

"You d-did?" You stuttered out looking at him as he smirked at you, he reached out his hand and ran it over your cheek.

"I did, not that this you isn't hot but...the old you is the reason I like you." His hands went back to your waist and he ran his thumb along your hip.

"You never spoke to me before,"

"You made me nervous," You snorted at his comment and he cocked his head to the side,

"I made you nervous? You make me nervous," He laughed along with you and shook his head,

"I could tell, whenever we had a fitting your hands would shake and you'd avoid eye contact with me." You felt your cheeks and ear begin to heat up at the sudden attention you were getting and he sighed not wanting this time with you to come to an end.

"It was cute, I have to go back before people worry but...Do you maybe want to go out sometime? Get a cup of coffee or something to eat?" Your heart raced as you realised he was asking you out on a date, a real date and not just because you were dressed the way you were.

"I'd love that, can you do me a favour?" He nodded and took his hands away from your body,

"Tell Mieko I went home to change, the heels and the dress are killing me." You giggled and he nodded laughing along with you,

"I'll tell you what, I'll drive you home and we can go out instead of working today. If your boss asks I'll say it's my fault," You couldn't even accept or deny what he was saying he just grabbed your hand and ran out of the small storage room with you.

Mieko watched from the pillar opposite the small room and looked at Jimin,

"I told you...I'm a genius. All he needed was a shove in the right direction," Jimin high fived her and laughed as he watched you and Hoseok running off towards the car park together hand in hand.

"They do make a good couple." He agreed wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

@writingdreamsnottragedies @yoongisdumplingcheeks @snowy-meowl @lynnthevirgo @jooniesdarlingdimples @fan-ati--c @lyoongx @mitzwinchester @callingmyangel @btsiguess-kpop @kneel-begyourpardon @taestannie

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thoughtsofanexcitedspacechild · 4 years ago

Text

25 more things I learned during a global pandemic from your Local Teenage Train wreck :) (Pt. 2)

1. Gaining weight is okay. Losing weight is okay. Bodies fluctuate and are inconsistent. Just make sure that you’re trying your best to be healthy, whatever that means for you.

2. School is hard, especially during a global. freaking. pandemic. Don’t beat yourself up if it’s harder to get up in the morning or your grades aren’t as high as they usually are. It’s hard right now.

3. You’re mental health comes above all. School, responsibilities, and personal projects are not worth your time if it’s affecting your mental health. If your gut is telling you to take a break, take a break!

4. If you feel lonely, get a plant to keep in your room. Do some research as to that plants do best with the type of lighting in your room, and figure out some basic care instructions. Have someone to take care of besides yourself. Name your plants, and take care of them.

5. Even if you’re not good at writing, I suggest you keep a journal during this time. It kept me sane over the summer, and even though I eventually stopped because of limited time with school starting back up, it helped to keep me sane in the worst of the pandemic.

6. If you’re spiritual (or even if you’re not) learn how to do shadow work. This isn’t anything that has to be spiritual or done in just one religion. It’s basically giving yourself a chance and a space to be open and honest with yourself and to learn what you might need to work on through writing. If you google it, you can find a more in depth explanation, and prompts to start doing it. You basically give yourself a prompt. They can be questions like “What’s the biggest lie you’ve told someone else or yourself?” or they can be a little less heavy like “What are five non physical things that you genuinely like about yourself?”. This can be pretty heavy, and can dig up some unwanted emotions, but that’s the whole point; to deal with the emotions you may have been repressing and letting fester inside of you.

7. On days when you’re not feeling well mentally, take a break. It’s okay to drop everything and get an extra hour of sleep, read, or do something else to make yourself feel better.

8. After hard days, I know the last thing you want to do is get up and continue on, but here are some ways to do it:

- lay out an outfit that’s put together, but not as over the top. No sweat pants or crappy clothes, but it doesn’t have to be your usual put together outfits with a full face of makeup. A nice crewneck and a nice pair of black athletic leggings can go a long way.

-wear your comfort jewelry. I wear my beaded necklace that I bought for myself, the silver ring my grandma gave me and the gold cross ring that my mom gave to me when I got confirmed.

-eat breakfast. A handful of cereal will do. Anything. But eat something. I like to make oatmeal. It sounds boring but if you make it right, it tastes just perfect for mornings when you don’t feel hungry but know inside that you are. Recipe is next on the list :)

-go to school. I know you want to lay in bed. I know the last place you want to be is a crowded building full of pubescent teens that aren’t nice, but go. Go to learn. Go to absorb knowledge like a sponge, and don’t worry if you fail and lose some of the water, because you can always soak it up later.

-if you have practice, rehearsal, a game, whatever, be gentle on yourself. Today might not be your best day physically, because the brain controls everything. Forgive yourself if you can’t land that double pirouette, get to the high note, or make that assist. You’re abilities are stagnant, and they’re going to change depending on how you feel

-When you get home, turn off your phone. Friends, social media, etc. can wait. Set a timer for one hour. Do work for just that hour. When the timer rings, finish what you were doing and then stop. Now have a 20 minute break and do something that’s not screen related. Read a book, draw something; heck, stare at the wall for 20 minutes and space out. When the timer rings, do another hour and repeat the same process until it’s all done.

-have a playlist you listen to to heal you. Sad boi hours are ok, just make sure to have a playlist of songs that get you moving again.

-Sleep. Even if that means putting off work for tomorrow. It’s ok. You really need it.

9. Oatmeal seems gross until you know how to prepare it. When you do, it’s revolutionary. It’s a high volume, low calorie food, so you’ll stay full for a while without overeating, all while consuming less calories than you would with a traditional breakfast cereal.

The right way to make it:

-measure out half a cup of old fashioned oats. Not steel cut. Those aren’t as good.

-MOST IMPORTANT STEP: add half a cup of water and half a cup of milk of your choice. I personally like almond milk because it’s kind of sweet already even when it’s unsweetened.

-SECOND MOST IMPORTANT STEP: add a pinch of salt, a sprinkle of cinnamon, and allspice, and a teaspoon or two of maple syrup. This is what makes it taste palatable. It’s less sugar than store-bought, and tastes amazing.

-Microwave that shit for one minute and stir. It should look kind of lumpy, but not a ton. Then, put another minute on. Stir at every half increment. (After 30 seconds, every 15 seconds, and then every 7) This is so it doesn’t boil over. Then, take it out, stir it one last time, and let it sit for a second.

-Wash up some berries to put in it. I love blueberries and or blackberries.

perfect oatmeal every. single. time. Feel free to add more toppings like nuts or if you wanna treat yourself chocolate or substitute the spices, but this is honestly one of my favorite breakfasts that keeps me full throughout the day.

10. Learn a new language. Yes, Duolingo is annoying, but do it. Find one that you’ll like to learn and that’s easy for you. Try them on like old clothes and find one that fits just right. For me, it’s French. Expose yourself to that language. Listen to music, read books (or try to) and watch movies with subtitles. Soon enough, you’ll be eager to learn more.

11. Learn how to use notion.com. It’s super amazing. You can literally keep track of your entire life there. It’s pretty fun to use as well. I made schedules for each day after school, a reading log, a want to read list, a personal habit tracker, etc, and they’re all extremely helpful.

12. Make a list of things you weren’t allowed to do as a kid and do one every day. Heal your inner child by finally itching the spot that may not have been scratched for years.

13. Learn how to make origami stars. They’re really easy, and I can’t recommend Maqaroon’s (Joanna’s) video on how to make them enough. Once you’ve got it down, get yourself a nice big jar and write down things you’re grateful for on the slips of paper you’re going to fold. Fill up your gratitude jar and make a wish once it’s full. It will come true.

14. Have 30 minutes a day to put your phone down and read. Yes. You will have to sacrifice something to do this, but it’s so important and good for not only information retention and learning, but for mental health as well. Even if you have to get up half an hour earlier to do it, it’s worth it.

15. It’s okay to be alone, but learn to recognize the difference between alone and lonely. If you’re lonely, here are some things to do:

-write a letter to a friend. It’s something nice you can do for yourself and others, and it’s not feeding into the toxic instant reply culture that we live in

-read a book or watch a show that gets you to connect with the characters, even if that means (I've said it before and I’ll say it again) rereading a favorite ya series or binging atla for the fiftieth time. It’s good for the soul.

-take a walk and smile at the people you see coming past. Again, it’s good for the soul.

-go to the coffee shop and ask the barista to make you a drink that tastes like “_____” (insert whatever you want there. It could be a color, song, feeling, etc.) It’s weird and uncomfortable, but it gives you a conversation starter and 9.9 times out of 10 a really good drink. (Also helpful for when you think the barrista’s cute)

-Reading in general. It opens up so many new worlds with the turn of a page.

16. Monitor your food intake. No, don’t restrict your food intake, monitor it. This means first seeing exactly what your putting in your body and altering it to gradually improve to a clean diet. Humans weren’t built to process all the preservatives, additives and sugars found in most processed food (cereals, chips, anything in a foil bag that’s either really sweet or really salty) and it’s important to cut down and if possible eliminate as much as you can of it out of your diet. Food is fuel, and you truly are what you eat. You’ll notice that by increasing your vegetable intake, reducing white processed sugars and carbs*, and cutting out sodas/extra sugars, that you’ll feel better. This isn’t a weight loss thing, but you may start to trim down a little bit once you go more intense with it. You don’t have to eliminate anything fully, and please enjoy your favorite “bad” foods! Everything in moderation is perfect! Just make sure that you’re getting the good stuff in there too! *Side note, do NOT cut out carbs! See my post on how I’m losing weight to get more into depth on this.

17. Buy fresh flowers for yourself. Who says that you have to wait for someone else? That’s completely false, and you should totally treat yourself to a nice bouquet on occasion, especially in the dead of winter.

18. The whole idea of self love is flawed. Loving yourself has nothing to do with the way you look. Loving yourself comes with genuinely loving your life. If you don't love the way you’re living, change it. Make and set goals. Fail at achieving those goals. Get back up and try again until you finally get it, but make sure that whatever you’re doing, you’re doing to love the life you live. Life doesn’t live you. You live life.

19. Have candles and incense. (Or a diffuser if you’re not allowed to burn stuff) Making your environment smell good makes a huge difference

20. Once you turn 18, get a tattoo. It doesn’t have to mean anything. Pick something small and get it behind your ear, on your ankle, wrist, fingers, whatever. You’ll love having the memory when your old.

21. Realize your worth. We often put ourselves down because we think that valuing ourselves is equivalent to selfishness. It’s not. At all. You are just as important as everyone else. Your voice matters too.

22. Go to art museums

23. Go to free concerts in the park

24. Expose yourself to new art, ideas, and literature

25. Life is gonna suck sometimes. It’s just how it is. That doesn’t mean a bad day’s gonna last forever. As cheesy as it is, keep your head up :)

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msbarrows · 4 years ago

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Cataracts - What Surgery Is Like

As previously mentioned, I’d developed cataracts and am now going through surgery for them, and have elected to document a bit about what it’s all like from my viewpoint. Mostly because I think it’d make a nice reference for anyone wanting to write with some degree of accuracy about what it’s like from the inside.

This post contains a description of the surgical process involved and what that actually feels like, I’m trying not to be overly graphic but I’m also not elliding over any of the grosser bits (thankfully and surprisingly very little).

First off, a descriptiong of the preliminaries. This started for me with my vision going blurry over the last couple of years, and finally getting around to visiting my old optomitrist when I happened to be in Toronto over last Christmas (as my one up north just retired a couple years ago, and I hadn’t replaced her yet). Of the several potential causes for the vision loss I was experiecing, what I had turned out to be cataracts, of the variety that occurs at the back of the lens and therefor doesn’t cause easily-visible clouding. Which I actually said “Oh, thank god!” to when the optomitrist told me, since they are the absolute easiest thing to fix, while some of the other options (detached retina, or diabetes-related macular degradation, to name a couple) are much less so. Then he gave me a reference to an opthamologist. Thanks to COVID-19, it was this fall before I was finally able to actually get to the clinic and see her.

From my point of view, the process then went pretty quickly. Note that I was at an eye institute that specializes in cataract treatment; everything is contained in one building (a nicely renovated Victorian brick house in the Annex area of Toronto). So all tests and surgery are done on premises.

First appointment there, they did the same sort of vision tests my optomitrist generally does, plus some extra inner-eye photography to get a good look at what was going on. This was done by two different people, one doing the eye-chart related tests and a different one doing the photography. Then I met briefly with my doctor, who looked over my questionnaire (which included questions like whether near, mid, or distance vision was most important to me, and was there a focal distance I particularly needed to be glasses free for, etc.), and that I didn’t need nor have interest in a lens replacement that wasn’t covered under our provincial health care.

A week later I returned for them to perform eye measurement tests, which are used as a basis for manufacturing the replacement lens. They measure the size and shape of the eye, and mostly just involved staring into various machines while photos are taken. The weirdest one, which they did last, involved dripping numbing drops into my eyes, and then lightly pressing a small sensor to multiple places both directly on the eyeballs and then on the closed lids. Something to do with viscosity I’d assume.

And now for a description of the general surgical process, which you can also find summarized (or in more detail) at a number of medical web sites. In my case, it was a pretty basic surgery being performed; the opthamologist needed to make a small slit in the outer layer of my eye, used a tiny probe to break down the lens using ultrasound waves, vacuum out the broken down lens, then use a largish needle to insert a folded plastic lens into the eye, where it would unfold within the capsular space and could be tweaked as needed into the correct position. The cut in the eye is tiny enough that it usually doesn’t even need stitching, apparently.

I was asked to arrive at a specific time, and had to start applying dilating drops to my eyes an hour, half-hour, and five minutes before leaving for the clinic. No nail polish or facial makeup. Preferable wearing comfortable pants and a loosely short-sleeved button front shirt without any undershirt or long underwear beneath it (which turns out to be a “just in case things go crazily sideways” measure; they didn’t actually need to access anything on my torso).

The first step after I arrived at the clinic was being dressed in PPE - one of their own disposable masks to be sure I was wearing a good enough one (that wasn’t coated in whatever mine had picked up outside), a hair cap, a long-sleeved thigh-length blue plasticized robe (it had thumb holes to prevent the sleeves from slipping), and booties over my shoes.

Then I was taken to their surgical floor, where a nurse began a series of eye drops. These included more dilation, an antispectic, and an antibiotic, that I can remember - multiple drops of all. She also gave me a teeny tiny pill to place under my tongue and let dissolved, which contained a small dose of a relaxant/anti-anxiety med (Sorry, she told me the name of it at the time but it’s dropped out of my memory). I didn’t notice any particular change in my mood, but then I’d been counting slow deep breaths since arriving (4 seconds in, 4 seconds out...) to help keep myself relaxed and give myself something to focus on that wasn’t omfg I’m going to be awake during this! Because yeah, not having a clue what it was going to be like was stressful. Nurse also took my blood pressure to be sure I was fine in that regards, and put a sticker on the gown to remind the doctor that it was my right eye being done that day.

After a brief wait, I was moved into one of the surgical theatres, where there was a dentist chair they sat me in, then connected a blood pressure cuff, fingertip monitor (hence the no nail polish rule) and sensors on the backs of both hands and one ankle (I’m assuming those were measuring a mix of blood oxygenation and heartbeat, with the ankle one making sure my feet were still getting blood when I was spending the surgery in what ended up as a tipped-over-backwards with head lowest position). They then rinsed my eye and the orbital area with bactine (very yellow vision while that happens), then patted the area around the eye dry.

The doctor sat at my head, and applied a medical drape with a pre-cut adhesive-edged opening over my eye, then peeled off a translucent applique that was over the hole. Then they applied medical clamps that held my eyelids in the open position (which thanks to the numbing drops, I didn’t feel at all). A brightly lighted microscope was then positioned over the eye, and I was told to stay as still as possible and stare at the red dot in the lighted area. The doctor then did the surgery as described above. From my point of view, there was very little to feel; occasional dull pressure, some random coldness that I believe was the eye being irrigated. I could hear the occasional very quiet noise the probe made as the lens was sucked away, but mostly it was just staring at the red light as well as I could while my vision distorted oddly and I continue counting breaths. Within what felt like no more than 5-10 minutes (if that), it was all over with.

They had me continue to lie there for a couple minutes while they peeled off the drape, wiped the eye area clean, and removed all the sensors, then a brief rest before having me sit up.

I blinked once or twice, and... DAMN! Sudden near-perfect vision in an eye that hasn’t seen clearly without help since I was in single digit ages. And the saturation. The detail.

Now, my left eye of course still has a cataract (it gets treated next week). I’d been telling people for a while that basically all my right eye was seeing was blur, so my left eye was doing most of the seeing, and I thought my left eye wasn’t anywhere near as bad as my right. With my right eye now seeing perfectly, I could now alternate opening eyes from side to side, and see just how badly (and irregularly) blurred and yellowed the left lens actually is. To which I can only saw, WTF, how was I even seeing anything at all!?

Then they had me sit for a while in the waiting area, where the doctor came and double-checked I was fine, and gave me a kit in a plastic bag of a card that identifies that I have an interocular lens (and info about it), a prescription for two different eye drops (antibiotic and anti-inflamatory) which was enough for both this eye and the eye getting operated on next week, and a shield to wear at night for the first five nights, to be sure I don’t accidentally rub it or put pressure on it.

Then I put on sunglasses (because hugely dilated eye) and walked out.

Side note - they won’t do your operation unless you have a ride home arranged; because that tiny pill means you’re in a slightly altered state, among other reasons. Good thing it was my brother and not, say, a taxi, since among other things it took us three drugstores to find one that actually had both kinds of eyedrops in stock, yay super fun.

Also, remember me talking about the starburst rays I was seeing around lights due to cataracts? While my eye was still dilated (which lasted until after midnight) I was seeing what I can only describe as ‘Ferris wheels’ - a burst of rays expanding out like the spokes of a wheel, and ending in an uneven ring of dots of bright light, each wheel matching the colour of the light causing it. Looked wild at night. Thankfully that effect has now gone away.

Had a follow-up appointment this morning where they did an eye chart and the rebounce test where they puff air at your cornea, and the opthamologist says the vision in that eye tested as 20/20 (WOOO! Finally something good with that number). I can see sharply and clearly for blocks from the mid-range on out. Sadly when I try to use my computer, tablet, etc (near-range and close vision) the eye can’t focus down far enough; some of that may improve over the next month or two as the eye continues healing, and adapting to the lens. In the meantime my sister suggested I try a pair of her reading glasses and, yay, that worked. I am now planning that after my follow-up appointment for next week’s surgery on the left eye, I’ll run around and pick up 2-3 pairs of reading glasses of various strengths (which I will get will depend on what seems to work best with arm’s length and close-in viewing), to carry me through until I go back to an optomitrist in a month or three, and get my vision evaluated to see if I need actual prescription reading and/or far distance glasses.

In the meantime, apart from computer/tablet use, I am glasses free. I can’t even remember ever having such sharp, clear, and saturated vision (since I’ve been in glasses for such a long time). You know the “oh, trees are made of leaves!” effect? I am getting that with every single thing I look at. Oh, that’s how much grey is in my hair? Weird, I never noticed this wall was textured before. Oh geez, that text over there is so small and yet I AM READING IT. I mean, even with glasses I probably was never able to read that from this distance! Etc ad infinitum.

It’s just so, so nice.

And that’s with just one eye finished. I am now really looking forward to next week’s surgery. Stress? What stress!?

#Cataracts #Me Myself and I #If you've ever wondered what having cataract surgery was actually like...#CW: Surgery Details

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wickednerdery · 5 years ago

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Title: Out of Time: Time Out Author: @wickednerdery Fandom: Marvel Pairing/character: Loki x Stark!OC, Steve Rogers Rating: FRT Summary: “I am Loki, of Asgard.” Notes: Continuing my strange little foray into cyberpunk with Loki on a futuristic Earth (after his escapes with the Tesseract in Endgame?). This one has a bit more cursing, drinking, and original characters...and a cameo by one Captain America!

Chapter 1

Loki stays with her right up until there are boots pounding their way to the exhibit, then vanishes from human sight. He watches security rush in and spread out to secure the room, including some breaking off to investigate the hole made by the shooter’s body. He takes note of the one who takes his place at Ms Stark’s side.

“Ana?” The gentleman is older, most certainly the one in charge, as he crouches and tears the dress at the wound. “Get the fucking medics in here now!” He pulls a pen from his inner pocket and slips one end into her wound. She whimpers, then gasps. “Shhh, it’s okay, it’s me. It’s Orson. Just checking for toxins.”

“F-Fuuuck…” Her teeth grit hard, her breath a hiss as he pulls bloodied pen back out to read. She pants, her eyes darting for the mystery man in black. “Wh-where i-is…” Her head of security again encourages her to stay calm. “…The man…Where?”

Orson sighs in relief, no toxins detected. “Don’t worry, we’ll get him. Medi-!” He’s cut off as they arrive, switches to answering questions and reminding them exactly how important she is.

A medic stretches pale flesh-colored tape across her wound as another unfolds a sheet that hardens into a flat stretcher. Loki watches with interest as it hovers after she’s placed on it. It floats out, leaving the medics free to attend to Ana as security escorts them towards an emergency back exit window. He hears the helicopter, but doesn’t bother to go watch her loaded into it. Instead he teleports himself into the crowd now being forced to exit, remaining unseeable to take in the scene unbothered.

Ana’s eyes open to a white ceiling dotted with black, red, and gold. Her ceiling. “Status report?”

“Yeah, you’ll be fine,” says Tony in his usual laissez faire. “The bullet went through and through without caustic or explosive damage. Stem cell injection patched up the insides, skin patch worked for the aesthetics.”

“How long was I out?”

“Two days out at the hospitals, three days in and out at home.”

“Is the data from that night filed?”

“Filed, examined, and filed again.”

“Examined by who?”

“I’ll give you one guess - wait, it’s not me - now I’ll give you one guess.”

She knows. “Is he here?”

“Not at the moment. Want me to ring him up?”

“Fuck, no. Am I mobile?”

“Vitals say yes, but I’d take it slow.”

For all intents and purposes, her head of security aside, Tony is all she has. Her parents died in the last outbreak, she’s no siblings. What little extended family left were too busy bickering over the Stark name and fortune to make nice. And the Avengers? They were little more than a fairy tale, a myth, now. It was just her and her innovations.

She lifts camisole to examine her midsection, pulls off the now clear patch to see underneath. The skin came in well, smooth, with perfect tone match. Deep breath in, then out, with minimal pain overall. She reaches for the med pack and tears off a square to pop in her mouth. The analgesic spreads warm across her body as it dissolves. She smiles, gets up slow and ensures she’s stable, then prepares for the day.

Up on the rigging his eyes stay on the man below. So this is what passes for a knowledgeable man these days? Hardly impressive, even (or especially) with the women swarming him. Loki watches carefully as each in turn chat, some getting tabs or a tap of the wrist with his, while others leave with no contact only for the man to swipe and type a handheld glass panel after. A dealer of some sort. The god waits for him to be alone, then slips down into the bright, grubby, streets of this new Midgard. He’s surprised, impressed, when the other clocks him within four feet.

“No new clients, pal, sorry.” Cyno slips phone into backpack, then swings the mass over his shoulder.

Loki grins in confidence of his skills. “I urge you to reconsider.”

The man seems entranced before blinking the charm away. “Yeah, no. Nice try though. Haven’t had that chem mix in me before. Strong stuff, kudos to you and yours.”

The god is stunned, then enraged. “You will help me, mortal!”

Cyno gauges the other’s seriousness, then laughs. “Man desperate as you…I expect high and constant pay.”

“Then you shall have it.” Loki can’t be unreasonable, not right now.

“And what do you want?”

“I want information on Ms Ana Roget Stark.”

“Do I look like an IronMan to you? I know what everyone knows. Genius, zillionare, party girl, philanthropist.”

“Surely there must be more to her than that.” Nobody gains such a skilled assassin without cause.

“Like I said, I’m not an IronMan, I don’t know what happens behind the golden screen.” Cyno watches the other’s brows rise expectantly and sighs. “Stark International controls security for most of the world. Every aspect of surveillance, whether you see it or not, is theirs. These days Ana is the head of the family and the company, but that’s always being contested by an extended family member or business rival.”

“...Go on...”

“The rest is rumor. Secret labs making mutate super-soldiers, mutant-android experimentation camps, inter-universal trade. Hell, there’s even one of a first generation Captain America module she plays when lonely. Impossible to say what’s bullshit and what’s fact.”

The information was as intriguing as it was irritating. “Yes, well…surely you can find ways to dig through the gossip for the golden nugget.”

“What?” This guy spoke a different language to Cyno. “Who the fuck are you, anyway?”

“I am Loki, of Asgard.”

Cyno smirks, snorts. “An anarchist. Figures.” He sighs. “Well, look, Loki of Asgard, you got the credits I’ll get what I can as far as facts, but no promises. I’m no IronMan and I ain’t risking my life playing one so you can virus the Stark woman on the dark net or whatever the fuck you’re planning.”

Loki’s smile spreads slow and malicious. “Leave what’s done with the information to me, you just get it.”

“Fine, meet me at Kibishī Ākēdo Ten at 23:30 tonight. Go to the bar, order the house cider, and wait in the back. I’ll be there first.” He always is. “You pay me two-thousand and I give you a sample of information. If you like it, we can set up...a subscription, if you will.”

“I require a guide for this world, can you procure one for me?” He will not make the same mistake as in New York. He will understand this new Midgard far better than the old one before making any moves.

“Male or female or....?”

“It hardly matters.”

“You wanna be able to play?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Fuck it, guy. You wanna be able to fuck it?”

“Did I ask for a whore?”

Cyno sighs. “I’ll get you an open one, help you set it up.”

“Now.”

“Yeah, now, com’on.” Cyno shifts bag fully onto his back and heads down the street, leaving Loki to follow.

“Display layout, with guests, at the opening of the museum gala. Pull up all bios available.” Ana heads towards her main room, throwing hair up into a bun. She’s showered, dressed, but still sore, too high for the lab. Today will be a regroup and review day - she’ll go through each guest until she finds the man in black. As the hologram of the charity event populates stats on all guests she heads towards the bar of the open kitchen.

“Don’t you think you should slow down on that?” His voice is gruffly calm. “At least while still doped.”

She turns to see her head of security, in the flesh. “Tony said you weren’t here.”

“I lied,” her AI confesses without guilt.

“I made you too smart.” Ana sighs, carrying on with her plans. “And I can drink whenever I damn well please, Orson, so just move on.”

He remembers Tony like this too - stubborn, defeated, ready to slip back into the bottle - but pushes on. Now was not the time for a lecture. “We found the shooter. Dead. Blasted through the wall.”

“Who was he? Was he part of a group or lone nut?”

“Mac Headstrom, part of the Altered Brotherhood.”

“Which ones are they?” There are too many to even bother to keep track of.

“The same ones that blew our labs in Costa Rica, think we’re making an army of mutants out of the homeless.”

“Ah.”

“You didn’t tell me you rigged a charge to your ring, Ana.”

“I didn’t, I only had the taser.” She pours out liquor, ignores Orson’s sigh as she drops another analgesic strip into it for good measure. “It was the man in black. The guest.”

“The guest in black?”

The sweet rush of numbness almost causes her to moan. “Yeah. Got in via one of the golden ticket invites, but didn’t seem to understand that himself. Didn’t seem to understand much, actually. Weird thing was…” She grabs a slice of cold pizza. “I thought he used a hologram to contact me the second time, but he…he caught me.”

“Caught you?”

“After I was shot. I was going down and he was able to catch me.”

“So he actually teleported?”

“Apparently.” She stays standing at the counter, unwilling to walk away from the bottle or take it with her into the living room. “But his tech knowledge seemed nonexistent. How does a guy not even know he’s got a codes tab, but then be able to navigate teleportation?”

Orson hesitates, then proceeds. “Maybe he’s a mutant?”

“I thought most of your kind died out with the Legacy Virus.” Not the same as the one that took her parents, but just as devastating.

“Most did. But not all.”

“If I might cut in,” says Tony. He reddens one of the people in the hologram of the party, pulls aside an enlarged image of the man. “But if this is him, he’s not a mutant.”

“That’s him, yeah.” Ana pours another drink, finally coming around the counter to sit. As she does, her chair adjusts for her comfort. “You already ran checks on him?”

“He’s a core file in my coding from the original Tony.”

“Loki.” Orson sighs, jaw clenching with a tension that Ana rarely sees from him. “Adopted brother of Thor Odinson, from Asgard. Basically a god. Iron Man fought him with the rest of the Avengers when he attacked New York City in early 2010s.”

“The Chitauri thing?”

“Yeah, the Chitauri thing.”

“So an intergalactic terrorist god…” She sips. “Came from the past.” Holds up a finger when Orson threatens to speaks. “To save the descendant of his enemy?” Her finger stays up until her drink is downed.

“Ana -”

“No, no. I’m sorry, I’m not nearly sober nor drunk enough to unpack all that just now.” She waves the hologram away and gets up. “And I’m not up for the ‘shit I did wrong’ security debriefing either.”

“Ana.” Orson pleads, for what he’s not sure.

“So, you don’t have to go home…” She heads back towards the bar. “But you do have to get the fuck out. Right now.”

The man’s eyes go to the ceiling, the cameras in the black dots. Nothing. Not a peep from Tony. “Fine, I’ll check in on you later.” He stands with a sigh. “But you better not be half-in-the-bag then.”

“Half in the bag?” She smirks, he uses such old-timey turns of phrases sometimes.

“I want you clean and sober before I return.”

“Can’t be that until you actually leave.” The liquor and pain meds cause her to happily slur her words. She follows him all the way to the elevator with goodbyes, watches until his car exits the property, then goes to pour another. “Tony?”

“Yep?”

“Activate Captain Comfort.” If a disembodied AI computer program could roll its eyes, Tony did. “Have him waiting.” Ana finishes her latest glass, sets it in the sink, and heads back to her room. She doesn’t want to think about the crazed assassin, the terrorist organization he was part of, the time-traveling god, the security upgrades Orson’s no doubt already planning, or anything else. She doesn’t want to think at all. “Captain?” She calls out, already letting her hair back down.

“Ma’am?” He steps out of the bathroom clean and clean-shaven. He’s tall, well-built, with broad shoulders and ramrod posture.

She smiles. “Call me Ana.”

The phrase triggers his softer expression, going from stern soldier to caring man. “Ana, are you all right?”

“Comfort me.” She relaxes into his arms easily, smiling at the warmth and sense of care he provides. “Kiss me.”

He does, passionately, and she returns it in kind.

Sorry, I couldn’t help but make the rumor about Ana having a Captain America pleasure-bot true, LMAO!! (I may write a separate, smut, piece of their full interaction, lol!) If you’re wondering why Loki’s mind control didn’t work on Cyno it’s because - using a magic-as-science type concept here - he’s got a way to clear out drugs/toxins/chemicals from his body (I confess, I’ve no specifics beyond that just yet, sorry, lol!) and that includes what Loki’s magical charms can do to one’s brain chemistry. ALSO...Orson (Ben Mendelsohn faceclaim) is an OC from another series (not on my masterlist yet oops). He’s a mutant with super-strength who’s impervious to damage, illness, and (for the most part) aging...he also lacks touch sensation for the most part. Ana’s faceclain is Evan Rachel Wood. Cyno’s faceclaim is Ryan Gosling and you’ll find out more about him as we go, lol! ;-)

Still/Always playing with this one, feel free to share ideas/thoughts/suggestions!! 😉

Tagging: @lady-crowned-with-stars, @beccaliciooouuusss, gravitational-anomaly, @fuckthatfeeling, @v-2bucky, @ultrarebelheart, @tarithenurse @latent-thoughts @chibiyanai @lukeevansandjdmobession @sweetfictionalworld @ladyfluff @theangelsfightwithdevils @holykryptonitekitten @kpopgirlbtssvt …And I legit don’t know who else to tag anymore lol

Gifs made off ones I found on Google, then combined myself.

#loki #tony stark #steve rogers #fanfiction #marvel cinematic universe #loki laufeyson #loki odinson #Iron Man #captain america #OC: Orson #OC: Cyno #stark!oc #my writing #not my gif #kinda my gif #cyberpunk

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cathkaesque · 5 years ago

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British politics in 2020 is a mass of contradictions. The outright legislative terror of the early to mid-2010s has momentarily abated but the landmines planted in that period continue to go off (Grenfell, ‘Windrush’, COVID-19 ‘unpreparedness’). Measures designed to align the working class with capital (right-to-buy) produce renters unions and anti-landlordism. Stalinists lead the rearguard action against civic equality for trans women. A government of ultra-Thatcherites sets about hiking the minimum wage. ‘Momentum’ is a synonym for inertia, austerity is over and only just beginning, the ‘spirit of the blitz’ is the reality of immigration enforcement, and we all live under permanent lock-down but everyone’s at work.

In the middle of all of this, AngryWorkers, ‘a small political collective’ based in West London, have published Class Power On Zero-Hours, an account of their six years of organising in the warehouse and logistics corridor of Greenford and Park Royal. The period that the work deals with coincides roughly with the phase of British history dominated by ‘Brexit’, and Class Power deals with some of the ways in which that (non-)event has been experienced beyond the Twitter Janus Face of gammon nationalists and aggrieved liberal solicitors. It encompasses, also, three major workers’ inquiries, an account of the role of food supply chains in the context of global struggles, a new perspective on the relationship of work and automation, a sketch for revolutionary politics today, and an uplifting middle-finger to boring left-wing scholasticism of all shades and varieties. Along with D. Hunter’s Chav Solidarity and Phil A. Neel’s Hinterland, it’s probably the best book about class to come out of the tiny circles of English-speaking anarchists and communists in the last ten years, and everyone who cares about that stuff even a little bit should definitely read it.

The book’s first paragraph gives a flavour of things to come:

We felt an urgent need to break out of the cosmopolitan bubble and root our politics in working class jobs and lives. We wanted to pay more than just lip service to the classic slogan, ‘the emancipation of the working classes must be conquered by the working classes themselves’. Over the next six years, comrades joined us and we worked in a dozen different warehouses and factories. We organised slowdowns on shop floors, rocked up on bosses’ and landlords doors with our solidarity network, and banged our heads against brick walls as shop stewards in the bigger unions. We wrote up our successes, as well as the dead-ends, in our publications, WorkersWildWest, which we gave out to 2,000 local workers at warehouse gates at dawn. We tried to rebuild class power and create a small cell of revolutionary organisation. The book documents our experiences. It is material for getting rooted. It is a call for an independent working class organisation. (7)

These are the methods; what about the conclusions? What do the General Rules of the International Workingmen’s Association of 1864 mean to the working people of Ealing in 2014? How does a working class that is increasingly Eastern European experience UK politics in a period in which the main focus of the ‘national conversation’ is about how to stop them from ‘coming over here’? AngryWorkers acknowledge that ‘the years from 2014 to 2020 in London were a thorny desert’ (35) in terms of workplace struggles. Workers ‘are in a state of permanent suspension: what will happen with Brexit? Will my wife and family get a visa? Will the bank grant me a mortgage if my wife gets her overtime? Will the situation “back home” get better?’ (38) Unsurprisingly, ‘times are getting harder’ for the working classes even as the mood darkens back in the cosmopolitan bubble. There, it’s climate change and ‘global fascism’; here, it’s sciatica and the £4,000 charge to get your baby delivered in the NHS hospital (99). The prospects for ‘Revolutionary transition and its conditions in the UK’ (the title of Chapter 14 of the book) don’t look rosy from either perspective; but AngryWorkers at least have some ideas about how the obstacles might be cleared away.

For this reason, Class Power on Zero-Hours isn’t a defeatist book. The authors love their area. They’ve spent years getting to know it. They want it to be at the centre of a working class movement. The desire is at the root of their impatience with parliamentary reformism, but it’s also what compels them to overcome their revolutionary scruples and to try things that they normally wouldn’t, such as joining big conservative trade unions and throwing themselves into the miasma of their internal politics. The text gives a meticulous overview of what the neighbourhood offers: control over 60 percent of London’s food imports, hundreds of unorganised small and large businesses operating on a low-wage model, and widespread disgust for official workers’ organisations that have sunk into the status quo like an old trolley into a canal. Right to the finish AW remain convinced that Greenford and Park Royal have the potential to exist at the centre of a new culture of class initiative and autonomy, and the dozens of pictures in Class Power on Zero-Hours of pay protests by women workers, occupations of Labour Party offices, IWW organising drives, and scores of workplace newsletters are a beautiful, moving anticipation of how things could be.

Organised around this six-year history are a series of more general claims, dealing with ‘the political’ (prospects for ‘democratic socialism’) and ‘the economic’ (unevenness of automation under capital), and trying to bridge the gaps in-between. If we take the book’s absolute ground level conviction to be that ‘the working class has become invisible’, (30) and has been subordinated to the concerns of an educated inner-city ‘left’ (an argument AngryWorkers share with the other two books I mentioned above), then its other main arguments can be arranged in something like the following sequence:

1) ‘the left’ has responded to the transformation in its class base, not by altering its practices, but instead by changing its theories;

2) the most common theoretical claim on the left is that we have moved from an ‘industrial’ to a ‘service’ economy. The second most common is that ‘unskilled’ and ‘semi-skilled’ manual jobs are being progressively automated away. Both of these claims are untrue (they are psychological projections);

3) a political theory that accepts both claims is likely to conceive of power in terms of trade unions and the state. It will be broadly oblivious to the ways in which both serve to oppress workers and stifle their initiative (this is what ‘democratic socialism’ is);

4) the recent emergence of complex global supply chains servicing the ‘consumer economy’ has required the concentration of large groups of industrial workers in massive central logistics hubs;

5) the workers in and around these extra- and peri-urban hubs are organisationally weak, but have significant ‘structural’ power;

6) a left that wields economic power in the form of independent working class control over productive resources is still the main prerequisite for a revolutionary change in the way we live.

This looks like an excellent read - the kind of class struggle politics the British left has lacked for some time!

#socialism #trade unions #Class Power on Zero Hours

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elisaenglish · 4 years ago

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How We Grieve: Meghan O’Rourke on the Messiness of Mourning and Learning to Live with Loss

“The people we most love do become a physical part of us, ingrained in our synapses, in the pathways where memories are created.”

John Updike wrote in his memoir, “Each day, we wake slightly altered, and the person we were yesterday is dead. So why, one could say, be afraid of death, when death comes all the time?” And yet even if we were to somehow make peace with our own mortality, a primal and soul-shattering fear rips through whenever we think about losing those we love most dearly — a fear that metastasises into all-consuming grief when loss does come. In The Long Goodbye (public library), her magnificent memoir of grieving her mother’s death, Meghan O’Rourke crafts a masterwork of remembrance and reflection woven of extraordinary emotional intelligence. A poet, essayist, literary critic, and one of the youngest editors the New Yorker has ever had, she tells a story that is deeply personal in its details yet richly resonant in its larger humanity, making tangible the messy and often ineffable complexities that anyone who has ever lost a loved one knows all too intimately, all too anguishingly. What makes her writing — her mind, really — particularly enchanting is that she brings to this paralysingly difficult subject a poet’s emotional precision, an essayist’s intellectual expansiveness, and a voracious reader’s gift for apt, exquisitely placed allusions to such luminaries of language and life as Whitman, Longfellow, Tennyson, Swift, and Dickinson (“the supreme poet of grief”).

O’Rourke writes:

“When we are learning the world, we know things we cannot say how we know. When we are relearning the world in the aftermath of a loss, we feel things we had almost forgotten, old things, beneath the seat of reason.

[…]

Nothing prepared me for the loss of my mother. Even knowing that she would die did not prepare me. A mother, after all, is your entry into the world. She is the shell in which you divide and become a life. Waking up in a world without her is like waking up in a world without sky: unimaginable.

[…]

When we talk about love, we go back to the start, to pinpoint the moment of free fall. But this story is the story of an ending, of death, and it has no beginning. A mother is beyond any notion of a beginning. That’s what makes her a mother: you cannot start the story.”

In the days following her mother’s death, as O’Rourke faces the loneliness she anticipated and the sense of being lost that engulfed her unawares, she contemplates the paradoxes of loss: Ours is a culture that treats grief — a process of profound emotional upheaval — with a grotesquely mismatched rational prescription. On the one hand, society seems to operate by a set of unspoken shoulds for how we ought to feel and behave in the face of sorrow; on the other, she observes, “we have so few rituals for observing and externalising loss.” Without a coping strategy, she finds herself shutting down emotionally and going “dead inside” — a feeling psychologists call “numbing out” — and describes the disconnect between her intellectual awareness of sadness and its inaccessible emotional manifestation:

“It was like when you stay in cold water too long. You know something is off but don’t start shivering for ten minutes.”

But at least as harrowing as the aftermath of loss is the anticipatory bereavement in the months and weeks and days leading up to the inevitable — a particularly cruel reality of terminal cancer. O’Rourke writes:

“So much of dealing with a disease is waiting. Waiting for appointments, for tests, for “procedures.” And waiting, more broadly, for it—for the thing itself, for the other shoe to drop.”

The hallmark of this anticipatory loss seems to be a tapestry of inner contradictions. O’Rourke notes with exquisite self-awareness her resentment for the mundanity of it all — there is her mother, sipping soda in front of the TV on one of those final days — coupled with weighty, crushing compassion for the sacred humanity of death:

“Time doesn’t obey our commands. You cannot make it holy just because it is disappearing.”

Then there was the question of the body — the object of so much social and personal anxiety in real life, suddenly stripped of control in the surreal experience of impending death. Reflecting on the initially disorienting experience of helping her mother on and off the toilet and how quickly it became normalised, O’Rourke writes:

“It was what she had done for us, back before we became private and civilised about our bodies. In some ways I liked it. A level of anxiety about the body had been stripped away, and we were left with the simple reality: Here it was.

I heard a lot about the idea of dying “with dignity” while my mother was sick. It was only near her very end that I gave much thought to what this idea meant. I didn’t actually feel it was undignified for my mother’s body to fail — that was the human condition. Having to help my mother on and off the toilet was difficult, but it was natural. The real indignity, it seemed, was dying where no one cared for you the way your family did, dying where it was hard for your whole family to be with you and where excessive measures might be taken to keep you alive past a moment that called for letting go. I didn’t want that for my mother. I wanted her to be able to go home. I didn’t want to pretend she wasn’t going to die.”

Among the most painful realities of witnessing death — one particularly exasperating for type-A personalities — is how swiftly it severs the direct correlation between effort and outcome around which we build our lives. Though the notion might seem rational on the surface — especially in a culture that fetishises work ethic and “grit” as the key to success — an underbelly of magical thinking lurks beneath, which comes to light as we behold the helplessness and injustice of premature death. Noting that “the mourner’s mind is superstitious, looking for signs and wonders,” O’Rourke captures this paradox:

“One of the ideas I’ve clung to most of my life is that if I just try hard enough it will work out. If I work hard, I will be spared, and I will get what I desire, finding the cave opening over and over again, thieving life from the abyss. This sturdy belief system has a sidecar in which superstition rides. Until recently, I half believed that if a certain song came on the radio just as I thought of it, it meant that all would be well. What did I mean? I preferred not to answer that question. To look too closely was to prick the balloon of possibility.”

But our very capacity for the irrational — for the magic of magical thinking — also turns out to be essential for our spiritual survival. Without the capacity to discern from life’s senseless sound a meaningful melody, we would be consumed by the noise. In fact, one of O’Rourke’s most poetic passages recounts her struggle to find a transcendent meaning on an average day, amid the average hospital noises:

“I could hear the coughing man whose family talked about sports and sitcoms every time they visited, sitting politely around his bed as if you couldn’t see the death knobs that were his knees poking through the blanket, but as they left they would hug him and say, We love you, and We’ll be back soon, and in their voices and in mine and in the nurse who was so gentle with my mother, tucking cool white sheets over her with a twist of her wrist, I could hear love, love that sounded like a rope, and I began to see a flickering electric current everywhere I looked as I went up and down the halls, flagging nurses, little flecks of light dotting the air in sinewy lines, and I leaned on these lines like guy ropes when I was so tired I couldn’t walk anymore and a voice in my head said: Do you see this love? And do you still not believe?

I couldn’t deny the voice.

Now I think: That was exhaustion.

But at the time the love, the love, it was like ropes around me, cables that could carry us up into the higher floors away from our predicament and out onto the roof and across the empty spaces above the hospital to the sky where we could gaze down upon all the people driving, eating, having sex, watching TV, angry people, tired people, happy people, all doing, all being—”

In the weeks following her mother’s death, melancholy — “the black sorrow, bilious, angry, a slick in my chest” — comes coupled with another intense emotion, a parallel longing for a different branch of that-which-no-longer-is:

“I experienced an acute nostalgia. This longing for a lost time was so intense I thought it might split me in two, like a tree hit by lightning. I was — as the expression goes — flooded by memories. It was a submersion in the past that threatened to overwhelm any “rational” experience of the present, water coming up around my branches, rising higher. I did not care much about work I had to do. I was consumed by memories of seemingly trivial things.”

But the embodied presence of the loss is far from trivial. O’Rourke, citing a psychiatrist whose words had stayed with her, captures it with harrowing precision:

“The people we most love do become a physical part of us, ingrained in our synapses, in the pathways where memories are created.”

In another breathtaking passage, O’Rourke conveys the largeness of grief as it emanates out of our pores and into the world that surrounds us:

“In February, there was a two-day snowstorm in New York. For hours I lay on my couch, reading, watching the snow drift down through the large elm outside… the sky going gray, then eerie violet, the night breaking around us, snow like flakes of ash. A white mantle covered trees, cars, lintels, and windows. It was like one of grief’s moods: melancholic; estranged from the normal; in touch with the longing that reminds us that we are being-toward-death, as Heidegger puts it. Loss is our atmosphere; we, like the snow, are always falling toward the ground, and most of the time we forget it.”

Because grief seeps into the external world as the inner experience bleeds into the outer, it’s understandable — it’s hopelessly human — that we’d also project the very object of our grief onto the external world. One of the most common experiences, O’Rourke notes, is for the grieving to try to bring back the dead — not literally, but by seeing, seeking, signs of them in the landscape of life, symbolism in the everyday. The mind, after all, is a pattern-recognition machine and when the mind’s eye is as heavily clouded with a particular object as it is when we grieve a loved one, we begin to manufacture patterns. Recounting a day when she found inside a library book handwriting that seemed to be her mother’s, O’Rourke writes:

“The idea that the dead might not be utterly gone has an irresistible magnetism. I’d read something that described what I had been experiencing. Many people go through what psychologists call a period of “animism,” in which you see the dead person in objects and animals around you, and you construct your false reality, the reality where she is just hiding, or absent. This was the mourner’s secret position, it seemed to me: I have to say this person is dead, but I don’t have to believe it.

[…]

Acceptance isn’t necessarily something you can choose off a menu, like eggs instead of French toast. Instead, researchers now think that some people are inherently primed to accept their own death with “integrity” (their word, not mine), while others are primed for “despair.” Most of us, though, are somewhere in the middle, and one question researchers are now focusing on is: How might more of those in the middle learn to accept their deaths? The answer has real consequences for both the dying and the bereaved.”

O’Rourke considers the psychology and physiology of grief:

“When you lose someone you were close to, you have to reassess your picture of the world and your place in it. The more your identity is wrapped up with the deceased, the more difficult the mental work.

The first systematic survey of grief, I read, was conducted by Erich Lindemann. Having studied 101 people, many of them related to the victims of the Cocoanut Grove fire of 1942, he defined grief as “sensations of somatic distress occurring in waves lasting from twenty minutes to an hour at a time, a feeling of tightness in the throat, choking with shortness of breath, need for sighing, and an empty feeling in the abdomen, lack of muscular power, and an intensive subjective distress described as tension or mental pain.”

Tracing the history of studying grief, including Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s famous and often criticised 1969 “stage theory” outlining a simple sequence of Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance, O’Rourke notes that most people experience grief not as sequential stages but as ebbing and flowing states that recur at various points throughout the process. She writes:

“Researchers now believe there are two kinds of grief: “normal grief” and “complicated grief” (also called “prolonged grief”). “Normal grief” is a term for what most bereaved people experience. It peaks within the first six months and then begins to dissipate. “Complicated grief” does not, and often requires medication or therapy. But even “normal grief”… is hardly gentle. Its symptoms include insomnia or other sleep disorders, difficulty breathing, auditory or visual hallucinations, appetite problems, and dryness of mouth.”

One of the most persistent psychiatric ideas about grief, O’Rourke notes, is the notion that one ought to “let go” in order to “move on” — a proposition plentiful even in the casual advice of her friends in the weeks following her mother’s death. And yet it isn’t necessarily the right coping strategy for everyone, let alone the only one, as our culture seems to suggest. Unwilling to “let go,” O’Rourke finds solace in anthropological alternatives:

“Studies have shown that some mourners hold on to a relationship with the deceased with no notable ill effects. In China, for instance, mourners regularly speak to dead ancestors, and one study demonstrated that the bereaved there “recovered more quickly from loss” than bereaved Americans do.

I wasn’t living in China, though, and in those weeks after my mother’s death, I felt that the world expected me to absorb the loss and move forward, like some kind of emotional warrior. One night I heard a character on 24—the president of the United States—announce that grief was a “luxury” she couldn’t “afford right now.” This model represents an old American ethic of muscling through pain by throwing yourself into work; embedded in it is a desire to avoid looking at death. We’ve adopted a sort of “Ask, don’t tell” policy. The question “How are you?” is an expression of concern, but as my dad had said, the mourner quickly figures out that it shouldn’t always be taken for an actual inquiry… A mourner’s experience of time isn’t like everyone else’s. Grief that lasts longer than a few weeks may look like self-indulgence to those around you. But if you’re in mourning, three months seems like nothing — [according to some] research, three months might well find you approaching the height of sorrow.”

Another Western hegemony in the culture of grief, O’Rourke notes, is its privatisation — the unspoken rule that mourning is something we do in the privacy of our inner lives, alone, away from the public eye. Though for centuries private grief was externalised as public mourning, modernity has left us bereft of rituals to help us deal with our grief:

“The disappearance of mourning rituals affects everyone, not just the mourner. One of the reasons many people are unsure about how to act around a loss is that they lack rules or meaningful conventions, and they fear making a mistake. Rituals used to help the community by giving everyone a sense of what to do or say. Now, we’re at sea.

[…]

Such rituals… aren’t just about the individual; they are about the community.”

Craving “a formalisation of grief, one that might externalise it,” O’Rourke plunges into the existing literature:

“The British anthropologist Geoffrey Gorer, the author of Death, Grief, and Mourning, argues that, at least in Britain, the First World War played a huge role in changing the way people mourned. Communities were so overwhelmed by the sheer number of dead that the practice of ritualised mourning for the individual eroded. Other changes were less obvious but no less important. More people, including women, began working outside the home; in the absence of caretakers, death increasingly took place in the quarantining swaddle of the hospital. The rise of psychoanalysis shifted attention from the communal to the individual experience. In 1917, only two years after Émile Durkheim wrote about mourning as an essential social process, Freud’s “Mourning and Melancholia” defined it as something essentially private and individual, internalising the work of mourning. Within a few generations, I read, the experience of grief had fundamentally changed. Death and mourning had been largely removed from the public realm. By the 1960s, Gorer could write that many people believed that “sensible, rational men and women can keep their mourning under complete control by strength of will and character, so that it need be given no public expression, and indulged, if at all, in private, as furtively as... masturbation.” Today, our only public mourning takes the form of watching the funerals of celebrities and statesmen. It’s common to mock such grief as false or voyeuristic (“crocodile tears,” one commentator called mourners’ distress at Princess Diana’s funeral), and yet it serves an important social function. It’s a more mediated version, Leader suggests, of a practice that goes all the way back to soldiers in The Iliad mourning with Achilles for the fallen Patroclus.

I found myself nodding in recognition at Gorer’s conclusions. “If mourning is denied outlet, the result will be suffering,” Gorer wrote. “At the moment our society is signally failing to give this support and assistance... The cost of this failure in misery, loneliness, despair and maladaptive behaviour is very high.” Maybe it’s not a coincidence that in Western countries with fewer mourning rituals, the bereaved report more physical ailments in the year following a death.”

Finding solace in Marilynne Robinson’s beautiful meditation on our humanity, O’Rourke returns to her own journey:

“The otherworldliness of loss was so intense that at times I had to believe it was a singular passage, a privilege of some kind, even if all it left me with was a clearer grasp of our human predicament. It was why I kept finding myself drawn to the remote desert: I wanted to be reminded of how the numinous impinges on ordinary life.”

Reflecting on her struggle to accept her mother’s loss — her absence, “an absence that becomes a presence” — O’Rourke writes:

“If children learn through exposure to new experiences, mourners unlearn through exposure to absence in new contexts. Grief requires acquainting yourself with the world again and again; each “first” causes a break that must be reset… And so you always feel suspense, a queer dread—you never know what occasion will break the loss freshly open.”

She later adds:

“After a loss, you have to learn to believe the dead one is dead. It doesn’t come naturally.”

Among the most chilling effects of grief is how it reorients us toward ourselves as it surfaces our mortality paradox and the dawning awareness of our own impermanence. O’Rourke’s words ring with the profound discomfort of our shared existential bind:

“The dread of death is so primal, it overtakes me on a molecular level. In the lowest moments, it produces nihilism. If I am going to die, why not get it over with? Why live in this agony of anticipation?

[…]

I was unable to push these questions aside: What are we to do with the knowledge that we die? What bargain do you make in your mind so as not to go crazy with fear of the predicament, a predicament none of us knowingly chose to enter? You can believe in God and heaven, if you have the capacity for faith. Or, if you don’t, you can do what a stoic like Seneca did, and push away the awfulness by noting that if death is indeed extinction, it won’t hurt, for we won’t experience it. “It would be dreadful could it remain with you; but of necessity either it does not arrive or else it departs,” he wrote.

If this logic fails to comfort, you can decide, as Plato and Jonathan Swift did, that since death is natural, and the gods must exist, it cannot be a bad thing. As Swift said, “It is impossible that anything so natural, so necessary, and so universal as death, should ever have been designed by Providence as an evil to mankind.” And Socrates: “I am quite ready to admit… that I ought to be grieved at death, if I were not persuaded in the first place that I am going to other gods who are wise and good.” But this is poor comfort to those of us who have no gods to turn to. If you love this world, how can you look forward to departing it? Rousseau wrote, “He who pretends to look on death without fear lies. All men are afraid of dying, this is the great law of sentient beings, without which the entire human species would soon be destroyed.”

And yet, O’Rourke arrives at the same conclusion that Alan Lightman did in his sublime meditation on our longing for permanence as she writes:

“Without death our lives would lose their shape: “Death is the mother of beauty,” Wallace Stevens wrote. Or as a character in Don DeLillo’s White Noise says, “I think it’s a mistake to lose one’s sense of death, even one’s fear of death. Isn’t death the boundary we need?” It’s not clear that DeLillo means us to agree, but I think I do. I love the world more because it is transient.

[…]

One would think that living so proximately to the provisional would ruin life, and at times it did make it hard. But at other times I experienced the world with less fear and more clarity. It didn’t matter if I was in line for an extra two minutes. I could take in the sensations of colour, sound, life. How strange that we should live on this planet and make cereal boxes, and shopping carts, and gum! That we should renovate stately old banks and replace them with Trader Joe’s! We were ants in a sugar bowl, and one day the bowl would empty.”

This awareness of our transience, our minuteness, and the paradoxical enlargement of our aliveness that it produces seems to be the sole solace from grief’s grip, though we all arrive at it differently. O’Rourke’s father approached it from another angle. Recounting a conversation with him one autumn night — one can’t help but notice the beautiful, if inadvertent, echo of Carl Sagan’s memorable words — O’Rourke writes:

“The Perseid meteor showers are here,” he told me. “And I’ve been eating dinner outside and then lying in the lounge chairs watching the stars like your mother and I used to” — at some point he stopped calling her Mom — “and that helps. It might sound strange, but I was sitting there, looking up at the sky, and I thought, ‘You are but a mote of dust. And your troubles and travails are just a mote of a mote of dust.’ And it helped me. I have allowed myself to think about things I had been scared to think about and feel. And it allowed me to be there — to be present. Whatever my life is, whatever my loss is, it’s small in the face of all that existence… The meteor shower changed something. I was looking the other way through a telescope before: I was just looking at what was not there. Now I look at what is there.”

O’Rourke goes on to reflect on this ground-shifting quality of loss:

“It’s not a question of getting over it or healing. No; it’s a question of learning to live with this transformation. For the loss is transformative, in good ways and bad, a tangle of change that cannot be threaded into the usual narrative spools. It is too central for that. It’s not an emergence from the cocoon, but a tree growing around an obstruction.”

In one of the most beautiful passages in the book, O’Rourke captures the spiritual sensemaking of death in an anecdote that calls to mind Alan Lightman’s account of a “transcendent experience” and Alan Watt’s consolation in the oneness of the universe. She writes:

“Before we scattered the ashes, I had an eerie experience. I went for a short run. I hate running in the cold, but after so much time indoors in the dead of winter I was filled with exuberance. I ran lightly through the stripped, bare woods, past my favourite house, poised on a high hill, and turned back, flying up the road, turning left. In the last stretch I picked up the pace, the air crisp, and I felt myself float up off the ground. The world became greenish. The brightness of the snow and the trees intensified. I was almost giddy. Behind the bright flat horizon of the treescape, I understood, were worlds beyond our everyday perceptions. My mother was out there, inaccessible to me, but indelible. The blood moved along my veins and the snow and trees shimmered in greenish light. Suffused with joy, I stopped stock-still in the road, feeling like a player in a drama I didn’t understand and didn’t need to. Then I sprinted up the driveway and opened the door and as the heat rushed out the clarity dropped away.

I’d had an intuition like this once before, as a child in Vermont. I was walking from the house to open the gate to the driveway. It was fall. As I put my hand on the gate, the world went ablaze, as bright as the autumn leaves, and I lifted out of myself and understood that I was part of a magnificent book. What I knew as “life” was a thin version of something larger, the pages of which had all been written. What I would do, how I would live — it was already known. I stood there with a kind of peace humming in my blood.”

A non-believer who had prayed for the first time in her life when her mother died, O’Rourke quotes Virginia Woolf’s luminous meditation on the spirit and writes:

“This is the closest description I have ever come across to what I feel to be my experience. I suspect a pattern behind the wool, even the wool of grief; the pattern may not lead to heaven or the survival of my consciousness — frankly I don’t think it does — but that it is there somehow in our neurons and synapses is evident to me. We are not transparent to ourselves. Our longings are like thick curtains stirring in the wind. We give them names. What I do not know is this: Does that otherness — that sense of an impossibly real universe larger than our ability to understand it — mean that there is meaning around us?

[…]

I have learned a lot about how humans think about death. But it hasn’t necessarily taught me more about my dead, where she is, what she is. When I held her body in my hands and it was just black ash, I felt no connection to it, but I tell myself perhaps it is enough to still be matter, to go into the ground and be “remixed” into some new part of the living culture, a new organic matter. Perhaps there is some solace in this continued existence.

[…]

I think about my mother every day, but not as concertedly as I used to. She crosses my mind like a spring cardinal that flies past the edge of your eye: startling, luminous, lovely, gone.”

The Long Goodbye is a remarkable read in its entirety — the kind that speaks with gentle crispness to the parts of us we protect most fiercely yet long to awaken most desperately. Complement it with Alan Lightman in finding solace in our impermanence and Tolstoy on finding meaning in a meaningless world.

Source: Maria Popova, brainpickings.org (9th June 2014)

#quote #women writers #love #life #loss #grief #existential musings #all eternal things #love in a time of...#the places you have come to fear the most #the same deep water as you #laid bare #intelligence quotients #depth perception #melancholy skies #this is how it feels #stands on its own #elisa english #elisaenglish

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shes-claws-deep · 6 years ago

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Caster Cu - Come and Claim Me

Thank you for your commission @demialwrites! Here’s your 1500 word fic of Caster Cu getting abused spoiled by his Master~

Want a fic of your own? I’m currently having a sale, so now’s your chance to get one on discount!

Want to read more F:GO fics? On my AO3!

"You want me? Come and claim me," Cu proclaims as he holds his staff aloft, a smirk on his face and a harmless rune bubbling beneath his feet.

"Don't bite off more than you can chew, Cu Chulainn." You glower at him and snuff out the rune with a flick of your wrist, expending some measure of mana to extinguish the Caster's spell. "You don't know what you're getting in for."

The Hound tilts his head down and lets shadows play across his chiselled, handsome features, his gaze smouldering at you as his smirk turns toothy. "I think it's you who might be in over your head. You think you can collar the Hound of Chulainn?"

Now, it all sounds rather serious, doesn't it? But it all began with a simple question of things that Cu would rather not do in bed. One thing he mentioned he doesn't like but would be willing to try, is being collared. Seeing his Alter self with that invisible chain, the connection with his namesake, it doesn't quite hold the best connotation for him. But seeing you lust over images of men in collars have made him rethink his decision. Seeing you go hazy-eyed and grin at men who wear nothing but collars around their throats. The thought of you looking at him like that. That's what makes him want to try it. But as always, Cu refuses to go down without a fight. You're his Master, so act like it.

You match his smirk with one of your own, striding towards him with deliberate steps. Backing him up bit by bit until he bumps roughly into the wall, trapping him so that you can draw so close that you're but a hair's breadth away. "Do I think I can collar the Hound of Chulainn?" You murmur quietly, lips brushing against his like the wings of a butterfly. As his lashes flutter and his chest heaves with quick breaths, you grin and hiss, "I know I can."

Without another word, you smash your lips onto his. Seizing his mouth in a harsh kiss that takes his breath away, that makes him melt under you and your hands that snake up into his long hair. Hands that ball up those silky blue locks, that strain deliciously at his scalp until he's groaning lustfully into your mouth, his own hands dropping his staff and going to your hips. The clatter of wood is summarily ignored as you tug him down, making him widen his stance until you can press yourself between his legs and support him as his knees go weak.

"A-ah," he moans against your lips. "So rough, Master?"

"What, complaining already?"

Cu opens his mouth, about to do just that when you start clawing at his belt and his clothes, almost tearing at them. "Hey, my clothes!"

"Get rid of them or lose them, Cu," you growl, managing to take his belt off and wind it up in your hands before the rest of his robes disappear. "That's a good boy."

It should be condescending. It should be degrading to be referred to like a dog, to be praised like a pet that pleased his master. Though you *are* his Master, just...not that kind of Master. At least not yet. And yet Cu shivers in delight and blushes, his throat bobbing as you press further into him while calling him a good boy. Impossibly, he melts into your touch when you tangle your fingers into his long hair, tilting his head so that you can claim his lips again.

What was possibly just seconds feel like long minutes, hours, maybe even days, with your lips still locked with the Child of Light's. You suck at his bottom lip, licking at the inside of his mouth, coaxing his tongue into your mouth so you can suckle at the slick appendage like you would his cock. Ladies man that he is, Cu knows it all too well and groans gutturally. He rocks his hips and curls his beefy arms around you, a warm hand even landing on the nape of your neck to keep you close.

Although you loathe breaking the kiss, you part from him with a slick sound and leave his tongue hanging out like the dog he is. "What were you saying about claiming, Cu?" you purr, scratching at his scalp and neck until he groans and closes his eyes.

The blue haired caster pants and digs his nails into your neck, gathering up the shreds of his senses and finally manages to smirk defiantly at you. "I said," he growls, pushing you away and lowering his stance as though preparing to charge you. "If you want me, come and claim me." And then he proceeds to tackle you onto the bed as gently, yet roughly, as possible. The breathless wheeze from your lips shouldn't sound erotic, yet it is, urging Cu to pin you to the bed with body and hands, his face hovering above yours.

Not one to give in so quickly, you growl and utilise a draining spell, one that works well enough to make Cu hiss and let up enough that you can bowl him over and sit on his chest.

Infuriatingly, he just smirks up at you and huffs, "Getting serious now, huh? A draining spell, that's clever."

"I don't turn down challenges, Cu, you know this." Tossing your hair back, you shimmy up until you've pinned his arms down with your legs, knees stretched over his wide chest but doing its job as he can only squirm under your weight. You reach down, belt in one hand, and palm at the side of his neck carefully. You're not quite sure how he'll react to you trying to wind the belt around his neck.

Cu stills, those brilliant crimson eyes boring into yours. He feels your warm palm press gently against his pulse and finds that it's not fear that stills him, but arousal and no small measure of comfort. Your hand around his neck is far different from any friend or foe's and he'd be a fool to turn away something that you truly want. Horndog though he is, he is still your Servant out of his own free will. So he nods almost imperceptibly, the shift so small that he thought you'd miss it.

Ah, but the Hound should know better than to think you'd miss such an important gesture. With a grin, you snap the belt between your hands and slip it around his throat. Once, twice, the soft white leather contrasting against his beautiful skin. You're careful not to wind it too tight, just enough that he feels its presence and nothing more, leaving just enough on the end for you to hold like a leash. You grin and purr down at him, teeth sinking into your lip as you tip his chin up so you can admire how he looks with that band of leather around his throat.

You really should get a custom one made for him. He'd look so good with your name danging from the front of his collar. "Mmm, Cu, you look so pretty like this," you growl, curling inwards so that you can kiss him on the lips, nipping and getting nipped in return while your hands tug and pull at his long hair. Truly, with his silky blue locks pooling under his head and streaming in all directions, his shuttered red eyes, the pretty flush on his face, the white makeshift collar around his neck, his bare chest heaving under your weight. Fuck, you're just itching to mess him up. "So handsome. A pretty, delicious, good boy."

Cu shivers under you and bites his own lip, his hands coming up to circle around your ankles. His strength is evident even in his lax grip, his hands so big they shackle your joints loosely. And even now, even with his cock bouncing against his belly, his precum pooling on his navel, and his head feeling light and airy, Cu refuses to go down without mouthing off. "Just because you've got a collar around my neck don't mean a thing, you know?"

"I know." You have a glint in your eyes that make him grin. "But this will." Shifting quickly on your knees, you whirl around so you're facing the other way, but this time you plant your ass right on his face. "This will keep you quiet while I work."

Cu groans when your covered pussy presses hard against his face. "At least take your clothes off!"

"Why do it myself when I have someone to do it for me?" You lift yourself up high enough to shoot him a grin before you plop down again, reaching forth to grab his very pretty cock. Now you know why Medb is falling all over herself just to get at this dick. It's absolutely perfect. Thick enough that it fills your grip, long enough to ensure you'll feel it within your depths, and curved enough to make your mouth water. Yes, it-

Riiiip.

Cu seems to have taken your orders seriously, ripping your clothes off your bottom half without even shifting you off his face. Your panties shred under his hands like tissue paper, snapping against your butt and causing it to bounce before his eyes. Gods, fuck, he just wants to - well, there's nothing stopping him from doing it now, is there? He turns his head and sinks his teeth into your inner thigh, biting and nipping and licking until he makes his way to your pretty, soaked cunt, seizing it in his mouth in one go. Guess his big mouth is useful for something after all.

On your end, you're struggling to maintain focus on his cock, what with his mouth eagerly feasting on your pussy. You're just barely able to get his head in your mouth, your jaw dropping and lips stretching to fit his girth inside you. Oh boy, you're gonna fucking enjoy having him inside you. His musk is thick and heady on your tongue, his pubic hair brushing your chin and your nose pressing against his balls as you gather it up in one hand. The lead to his makeshift collar is still gripped in your other hand, tugging tightly and ensuring that he feels the pressure of the leather against him.

Soon enough, though, his mouth does its job too well and you cum on his lips, shrieking his name and letting it taper off into a loud moan as you shake and tremble on his face. Your thighs are aching just the slightest at having clenched so hard around his broad chest, your inner thighs stinging with the aftermath of his bites. With your forehead planted on his muscled hip, you take a moment to gather your senses before you sit up and check on your caster.

Cu blinks up at the sudden light and grimaces at the satisfied look on your face. "Master, you're not going to leave me like this, are you?"

Fuck, you love how he always calls you Master, how his accent curls around the word. In answer to his plea, you don't say a word but you grin, tapping his chin with a hand as you shuffle your way forward to his hips, still facing the other direction.

"Master?" The tinge of hope in his voice can't be missed.

"Don't worry, pretty Cu, I won't let you suffer." Then you turn your head so you can speak to him over your shoulder, his leash having tugged him upright behind you. "After all, I'm not done claiming you yet." At that, you angle his cock against your folds and sink right down, your orgasm having helped relax you and lube you up just for his moment.

Cu moans loudly into your ear, his arms coming up to wrap around your body and heft your breasts up. His callouses rasp against your nipples and your skin as he caresses you almost feverishly, his chest flush against your back from how tightly you're holding his lead. His cock, just like you imagined, fits you perfectly and jabs right into that one spot that you love, stretching you wide enough that you have to stop once his balls rest against your clit.

"Oh fuck! Your cock is so big, Cu, my good boy has such a perfect cock," you whimper and reach back to grab at his head and hair, letting his lead fall over your shoulder and rest between your breasts. "Move, Cu, move those hips!"

"Nnngh, Master, fuck yeah!" Cu groans gutturally and moves his hands to your hips and waist instead, helping you bounce on top of him while he uses those thick, muscular thighs to pound into you from below. For the longest time, all that filled the air were the slaps of his hips against your ass, the slick sounds of his cock sliding into you time and again, and the heavy pants of you both as you fuck each other stupid.

But it is when he slides a hand to your clit and starts rubbing it just right, rubbing it just the way you like so well that you swear he must've spied on you, that you start to tighten up and yelp. "Oh! Oh shit! O-" You grit your teeth and use your handful of Cu's hair to jerk him over your shoulder, to make him come closer so you can kiss him. "Cu! Cu Chulainn, who do you-who do you belong to!"

Cu Chulainn, the Hound of Chulainn, Ireland's Child of Light, bares his teeth and growls into your lips. "I belong to you, Master!" He clamps his hand on your hip, quickens his pace on your clit, and fucks you so hard your breath actually hitches from the force. "I'm yours, Master!"

That's enough to send you over the edge a second time and you throw your head back on his broad shoulder, mouth agape in a silent scream as you cum hard on his still thrusting cock. Cu doesn't last much longer. Already having ridden the edge for what seems like forever, he holds you tight and actually gets to his feet, using his entire body weight to fuck you hard and fast in an erratic rhythm until he cums. He groans your name out loud, drool slipping down his lips and smearing over your shoulder as he kisses it feverishly. With his arms, he holds you tight and shoves so hard into you that you yelp, scrambling in his hold and gasping that you can feel him in your stomach.

His hips shake, his thighs tremble, and Cu carefully eases himself back so he's sitting on the bed with you in his lap, still joined intimately. You gasp and pant in his hold, his lead now firmly in your grasp and his head on your shoulder.

Once you catch your breath, you curl an arm around his neck and scratch behind his ear. "I'll get you a real collar next time."

Cu grins and nuzzles close. "Just don't get something like 'Property of Master' embossed it in, alright? I get enough shit from the others about being a dog."

Now there's an idea.

#fate grand order #fate series #caster cu chulainn #dom!reader #sub!cu #sub!cu chulainn #ficlet #lemon #collar and leash #banter #cu chulainn

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ad1thi · 6 years ago

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part 5 of the carbonell family AU

Steve is reclining in his seat, ball-cap pulled down to shelter his face from the sun when a sharp rap jolts him from his almost nap. He startles, hand immediately going for his gun, before he realises that Romanoff is at the door, and he settles

“Romanoff,” he says in what he hopes is a welcoming voice, “What can I do for you?”

“Natasha,” she replies,”May I come in?”

He pushes up so he’s sitting properly, and she sits down at the singular chair in front of his desk. Steve likes Natasha, he always has; but there’s, rumours, about how she gets information from her marks; the single mindedness with which she investigates.

She’s one of those agents who doesn’t work well with others, and Rumlow told him that she used to work for the CIA, so he can’t help but be on edge around her. Even now, she sits quietly, legs crossed over one another in a way that hikes up her skirt, and hands subtly placed on her knee; making her breasts jut out slightly.

He doesn’t know if its intentional or not, but the effect is the same; Steve doesn’t trust her. He resolutely keeps his gaze on her face, waiting for her to start.

“You said,” she begins, but breaks off, “you said you lost someone to the Carbonell Family. A Bucky Barnes?”

He opens his mouth to answer, but she holds up her hands and continues, “When I was 17 years old, I fell in love. We were happy, really happy for a very long time. And then Maria Carbonell died; the Carbonell Family went insane- and I lost my boyfriend in the cross-fire.”

She stands up, straightening her skirt, “I just wanted you to know you aren’t the only one,” and she leaves before he has a chance to answer. Steve breaths out when she turns the corner, resting his head on his table, before reaching out for the photo-frame on his left.

Its a photo from before he hit his growth spurt, and Bucky is wrapped around him as he’s batting away his face. There’s an ache in him that’s existed ever since he touched down and was informed that Bucky had been a victim of gang violence; an unintended casualty in a shoot out at a grocery store

He had just gone to buy plums, Sharon said, holding Steve as he cried and cried and cried, and then the Carbonells stormed the store and all bets were off

He signed up to the FBI the next day

He puts down the photo, and presses the speed-dial on his phone.

“Sharon?” he says when the line clicks, “It’s me. I need everything you got on Natasha Romanoff. Think, pre FBI. Thanks”

He puts the phone down and grabs the set of files on his desk. If Natasha’s telling the truth, well at least he knows he has one ally on his team

Natasha waits until she’s in the parking lot to adjust herself. She pulls out the padding from her bra, pulls down the skirt to its expected length, and carefully wipes off the lipstick. Its not a role she generally enjoys playing, honeypotting herself- but desperate times call for desperate measures. She’s careful to hide all evidence of her altered appearance though, because she knows that if Tony finds out what she was doing, he’ll be furious.

He hates it when Natasha uses her beauty to her advantage, he hates the idea that she cheapens herself just to get people to listen to her. He lives in a fantasy world where everyone respects women the way he does; but Natasha remembers the days from before the Carbonell brand; when she had to claw and scratch her way into the limelight.

There’s a quick blink of light at the end of the lot, and she slips off her heels in favour of more comfortable flats before making her way over to the sleek black car; where James is waiting in the driver’s seat. He stubs out the cigarette when he sees her approaching, and she picks up the burnt out stub before bending over through the window to kiss him

“I’m always picking up after you boys,” she murmurs against his lips, and he bites her softly in reply. She’s called in a sick day, so no-one will miss her in the office; but they still look left and right before driving out of the lot- and there’s practised silence until they’re far enough that no surveillance can catch them.

“There’s clothes for you in the back Natalia,” she raises an eyebrow and he clarifies, “Antoshka thought you might want something more comfortable”

She looks back, and there’s a large black henley and a pair of shorts. She quickly shimmies out of her skirt and shucks off the blouse; grabbing the henley and pulling her hair into a pony.

“You sure you don’t want the shorts?” he says when they’re at a stoplight; his free hand casually resting on her inner thigh, and she just leans back and spreads her legs in response. James smiles, and his fingers inch higher; but they rest there- a constant weight that has Natasha thrumming with anticipation.

He pulls his hand off and onto the steering wheel when they swerve a sharp left, and he backs into the alley behind the speak-easy before parking. He gets out first, and Natasha waits until he’s opened the door for her; because she knows its a habit from his past life that he enjoys. James extends his hand out to her, and uses the leverage to pull her flush against him, crowding her up against the car and bending down to kiss her.

His free hand moves to hook her right leg around his waist, grinding lazily as he suckles her neck and she gasps; because its been so long since she’s felt the weight of James against her and she needs more and -

“Not that this isn’t a pretty sight, but the least you could do is move it to the bedroom,” a voice drawls behind them; and they break apart to see Tony standing against the back entrance to the speakeasy

“Antoshka,” James finds his voice first; moving slightly so Natasha could adjust herself, “I take it we’re forgiven”

Predictably, Tony darkens slightly, “I don’t remember hiring you for your lip”

“But you did invite me to your bed for it,” James snarks back even as Natasha’s fingers tighten around his hand in warning.

Of the two of them, James was always the one who pushed boundaries with Tony, always prodding and shoving and testing how far he could do before Tony stopped being Antoshka and started being Anthony.

Tony doesn’t give him an answer, simply stalks over, hooks two fingers into the collar of James’ shirt and tugs. It does the trick, because James bends himself almost in half to meet Tony’s lips; and the hand still wrapped around Natasha’s waist pulls her in when Tony slips his tongue.

Tony breaks away from James abruptly and spins around, walking back to the speak-easy and by some wordless agreement, James and Natasha unentangle and follow. They follow him all the way to their bedroom, where he’s already slipped out of his clothing and on the bed. They both crowd him against the headboard, James going for his neck while Natasha starts palming his dick; and there’s a soft exhale from Tony that lets Natasha know he’s their Antoshka

They’re both sleeping when Natasha slips out of bed for a glass of water, shrugging on Tony’s shirt and padding softly to the kitchen. When she returns, Tony has curled into James’ embrace; and he looks shockingly young.

In their relationship, there’s an unspoken understanding that while James and Natasha care for each other; their loyalty is to Tony. She glances down at her phone, where she has a notification from Rogers; and wonders not for the first time if she’s doing the right thing.

She looks back up at the two men curled up on her bed, and she knows, deep in her bones, that if Tony got wind of what she was doing before she managed to put all the pieces into place; that James would put a bullet through her head.

The thought doesn’t scare her as much as it should.

(it actually gives her some semblance of relief)

tbc

#my writing #the carbonell family AU #winterironwidow #nsfk #just in case

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capmerthur · 6 years ago

Text

THE BODY SWAP

It’s all in the title :) Somewhere end S1 (after 1.11 Labyrinth, but pre 1.13 Morte). In a land of myth, and a time of magic, Arthur awakes inside Merlin’s body (and no, not in that way). Alternating Merthur POV. Bonus Gaius. Mentions of Will and George.

Excerpt PART XIV:

Arthur reads the pages Merlin just put under his nose with the utmost attention. A spell to break any spell? That sounds promising indeed! Arthur can't help but worry though, as he realizes that the primary condition for the spell to work is that the enchanted person(s) has to be truly, entirely, honestly willing to see the spell lifted for it to work. And it is not about Merlin (positively-glowing-from-hope-right-now Merlin, sleeping-on-the-floor Merlin) Arthur has doubts about; it is about himself.

(PREVIOUS CHAPTERS UNDERS CHAPTER XIV)

XIV. THE SPELL (ARTHUR POV)

Arthur reads the pages Merlin just put under his nose with the utmost attention. A spell to break any spell? That sounds promising indeed!

Arthur can't help but worry though, as he realizes that the primary condition for the spell to work is that the enchanted person(s) has to be truly, entirely, honestly willing to see the spell lifted for it to work (AN: which explains why Merlin cannot use that spell later on whenever Arthur is bewitched by the way...). And it is not about Merlin (positively-glowing-from-hope-right-now Merlin, sleeping-on-the-floor Merlin) Arthur has doubts about; it is about himself.

The truth, Arthur realizes with a shock, is that he likes it now, somehow - having magic!? Since Merlin told he saw it as a tool - not a weapon; and since Arthur has been proven that he could master his new abilities? Arthur has started considering apparently, at the back of his head, how it could turn out handy, how it could turn out good, for his people? What if he could multiply crops on bad years, ensuring no one would starve that winter? What if he could protect the borders, ensuring no one with ill intent could pass? *What if he could*- And that? That is the most dangerous, treacherous thought Arthur could ever have. Not only because it would be ill advised to rely on something that might disappear just as quickly as it has appeared to start with, but because the fact that he feels *tempted* to use it at all might be a signal of its luring, corrupting qualities. Who knows what he might get tempted to use it for, in time? Will there even come a limit? And that is what frightens Arthur the most - to succumb to its call. It would start with a genuine heart, but who could know how so much power might ever alter his first intentions?

So. No; indeed. He mustn't entertain those thoughts. He should use magic to fix their current situation, and he will, simply because it is the only way to fix it to start it; but it would be for the best if it just disappeared along with it the moment their problem is solved. Besides, he owes it to Merlin, right. Because what if the magic stayed in Merlin's body, instead of staying with his mind after they get back into their own bodies anyway? He would never wish to see such a risk, and a burden, on Merlin's shoulders - particularly as he would know he would be responsible for it...

Arthur takes a deep breath, letting go of what could be, to focus on wishing for what must be.

The preparations are quite quick - Gaius already has everything they need in stock. It's merely a mix of relaxing herbs, Merlin says as he aligns several pots of herbs in front of Arthur, that Arthur will have to crush into his hands. If anything, it smells nice, Arthur can't help but notice with satisfaction. Somehow, the fact that it isn't nauseous makes it feel not-evil.

The incantation is more tricky. It's about six lines of text Arthur has to memorize and chant; and most of the words Arthur has never heard, so... Again, why can't he simply wish for the spell to disappear - like with the water? Merlin explains that Arthur has to make the words his own while focusing on what he wishes - because it's not only about working his own magic but also about lifting their attacker's magic control on their bodies (even though it's all a bit unclear whether the words of the spell are actually what makes it happens, or if they only help him achieve a certain level of inner focus that makes it happens - but Merlin might not know everything anyway, and whatever the reason, Arthur just HAS to master the incantation then anyway.)

It doesn't seem to work, though. Hours later, and still nothing has changed; no matter how often Arthur has recited the spell nor the amount of herbs he has crushed into his hands. It's not only frustrating and disheartening - it's simply infuriating: Merlin and him were both so hopeful this might be it!

"It will work. *You* will make it work, Sire," Merlin swears, voice steady, clear eyes unwavering, each time Arthur starts again.

Arthur closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and tries again. He owes it to Merlin's faith in him to keep trying.

And then, suddenly, it's done. Arthur has no idea what finally did it but he knows it's done: he hears HIS voice chanting as Merlin gasps. And when Arthur opens his eyes, he sees Merlin, and not his own body. And the crazy thing? For a split second, it feels weird.

"This is real, right?" Arthur can't help but ask, still in disbelief.

"I told you you'll do it," Merlin answers, beaming at him - proud of him, even.

They exchange a winning grin. Then Arthur howls.

The surge of victory and relief ends quickly though, replaced by crushing worry.

"Do you feel any different, Merlin?", Arthur has to ask, as he doesn't feel any warm tingling when searching inward. He is relieved to feel free from it; but not if the cost is that Merlin is tied to it now.

Merlin blanches, most probably from realizing the danger he could be in, and doesn't answer right away - which is good, because it means that Merlin is actually doing an internal thorough check; but the silence is simply excruciating.

"Please tell me it's gone," Arthur can't help but whisper, as if speaking the words could make it truth, even knowing he's lost any ability to make it so.

(PREVIOUS CHAPTERS)

I. AWAKING (ARTHUR POV)

Arthur awakes; lying on his back - unusual - and rolls over automatically.

He surprisingly falls, down, hard; and jerks fully awake now - on the floor, near a so very tiny bed, tangled in an unknown blanket (harsher than his standards, even while on errands, he can’t help but notice).

In disbelief, he eyes his surroundings…

Where is he? Has he been abducted?

Think, he admonishes himself - trying to clear his mind; to remember what must have happened, to guess who has dared to commit such an act, and, most important of all right now: Find a way out.

His eyes then suddenly meet Merlin’s, and relief surges through him somehow - Merlin is alive - before his anxiety returns; and double: because poor faithful, loyal Merlin has obviously been taken too; and it’s Arthur’s fault - he must have failed to save them both from being taken, even though he cannot remember anything…

Except when Arthur reaches out to Merlin for him to come closer (they need to share information and plan, but must be quiet as a mouse), he realizes with fright but indeniable certainty that Merlin is in fact a reflection in a mirror; and worse: *HIS* reflection!?

It his NOT his hand indeed that is stretching out in front of him; NOT his clothes on his person; and definitely NOT his own hair falling upon his eyes, as he notices the black strings in his vision range…

Arthur is dumbstruck. He sees Merlin’s mouth shaping a silent O, and he sees the dread in Merlin’s eyes… except they ARE - he feels - *his* mouth, and *his* eyes; and everything is just plainly wrong, and plainly impossible - but undeniably REAL.

He is… Merlin? Or better said, *inside* Merlin? How can such a thing have even come to be?

Sorcery, Arthur understands with horror: Camelot is under attack!

But now armed with the knowledge of his predicament, Arthur realizes he is actually in Merlin’s bedroom. He’s been in here before, once; and he recognizes it all now.

So. Not abducted. All things considered, that still counts as something, right…

And, as it surely doesn’t feel as if Merlin is still somewhere in his own head too while Arthur is inside of it, well… Maybe? Logically? Merlin might then be in return inside his own body?

Arthur suddenly finds himself praying for this to be true. It would be for the best, if Merlin was in his body - if they were the only ones concerned by this unnatural situation; because what if *everyone* was awaking inside someone else’s body this morning? That would be… precarious - the general panic leaving Camelot completely vulnerable to whoever must have plotted this? The worst though would be if the one responsible for this was right now in control of his body, and acting as Crown Prince to do, well, evil deeds… So yes, you bet Arthur truly wants to find Merlin to be the one inside his own body when he finally finds it.

Arthur jumps on his feet, ready for action. Luckily (even though Arthur feels a bit guilty, as he notices his armour in pristine state against the opposite wall - apparently Merlin has been polishing it late into the night then) Merlin hasn’t bothered to undress before falling asleep.

So. First thing first: he has to go to his chamber.

Picking some weapon on the way for good measure, you bet …

Simply walking the few paces to open the door though turns out to be a challenge. His limbs are too long, and dangly; it feels like he has two left feet, and he has to try thrice before actually getting a grip on the handle - because he isn’t used to this body, of course - but maybe it is truly NOT Merlin’s fault if he trips over his own feet that often after all…

Gaius is already out - hopefully looking for herbs and not wandering out of his mind… Arthur would have preferred to be able to test right away his theories about how many people were affected by the damn body change; but unfortunately, it would have to wait some more.

The corridors are empty too, except for a stray black cat who walks at his side long enough for Arthur to start questioning himself about asking to the cat if he *is* Merlin - because Merlin HAS to be somewhere, right, as he obviously isn’t where he should be to start with; but then the cat takes another turn… Arthur feels stupid for worrying so much about his silly manservant - but he cannot deny that he definitely will worry less only after having indeed finally found said silly manservant.

Arthur relaxes slighthly though when he enters the kitchen: people are working as usual, apparently not in shock, apparently in their right bodies. He picks up the first tray he finds, along with an extra knife that he hides in his pocket for good measure.

He tries to put on a confident grin as he walks (with the most assurance he can muster in this awkward-feeling body) towards the guards at his bedroom’s door - and can only hope it will look the same as usual to them. They let him pass without trouble, and Arthur isn’t sure whether it’s a good thing. On the one hand, he *doesn’t* doubt Merlin - he simply, intrinsically doesn’t; and would never want him to feel like he did if his guards were to search him whenever he was about to enter his chamber. On the other hand… well, it isn’t Merlin right now entering his chamber, with knifes at the ready… This time, it’s only him; but what if it happens again, and if the one then inside Merlin’s body has ill intentions…

Deciding not to dwell on this for the time being, Arthur enters his bedroom - hoping to find Merlin doing whatever Merlin always does, but preparing for a fight, if need be…

II. AWAKING (MERLIN POV)

Merlin awakes as if in a cocoon; literally. He is surrounded by softness, flush, warmth; he cannot remember ever feeling so comfortable - and the world can wait for just another few seconds before he opens his eyes, right… Merlin wriggles, shifting on his back, sighing softly as he nestles some more into the cushions…

When Merlin awakes for the second time - culpability sinking in as he realizes he has overslept - his eyes open to a Pendragon red canopy he would recognize even among hundreds. Merlin freezes: what the hell is he doing, sleeping IN ARTHUR’S BED?!

Merlin sits upright at once - blankets falling all around him to reveal that he wears ARTHUR’S NIGHTGOWN too ?!

Whaaaaaaaat?!

This… just DOESN’T make any sense. The last thing he can remind is sitting on his own bed, polishing the last bit of Arthur’s armour before letting himself fall down to sleep (*AN). He surely doesn’t recall walking to Arthur’s chamber, and even less…

Merlin’s mind is reeling as he shuffles out of bed as swiftly as he can. Oh my… What is Arthur going to think? And come to think of it - true panic now creeping down on Merlin at that thought: *WHERE* is Arthur to start with?

His attention is drawn out right then by Arthur calling out his name (Merlin feels relief, no matter his current embarrassing situation) - in one of those thousands yet unmistakably always Arthurian ways to say his name: a myriad of moods and meanings in those simple two syllables - the voice sounding odd though this morning (is Arthur sick?), and tensed (well, he just found his manservant in *his* bed, that might explain it!).

Merlin turns to face his sovereign, trying to feel less self conscious because he mustn’t look guilty, while wishing for inspiration, and buying time until it hits: “There is actually a perfectly valid explan-”

But it is NOT Arthur he sees: it is… himself? His breath catches as ‘utter confusion’ gets a new meaning, you bet…

At the same moment, Merlin notices suddenly just how *not his* his voice has just sounded, and how he’s wearing a very particular ring around one finger of what’s NOT his hand, and how *blond* hair is falling upon his eyes… And still nothing makes sense; but at least it *does* explain how he awoke in Arthur’s bed in Arthur’s clothes: he *is* Arthur?; and… Arthur… is him? MUST be him. He has been calling his name right the right way, right?!

“Sire?” Merlin barely dares to breathe out, both in wonder and in plea (because Arthur CANNOT be gone - the fear and pain and simple *impossibility* of such a concept slicing through Merlin’s mind like a knife).

There is a bright smile then appearing on his face - a smile that doesn’t entirely look like his own though - “Yes, Merlin. It’s me,” followed by a relieved sigh: “And it’s you”. And, despite the shock about them having apparently switched bodies (?!?!), Merlin can’t help but feel warm all over - because Arthur (and yes, it is so clearly Arthur, even in HIS body!) has apparently been worried about him.

(*AN) Headcanon time :

Merlin uses magic to clean Arthur’s armour in the beginning, indeed. And he still uses magic for most of the chores, as much as he can, of course (washing clothes, mending clothes, emptying chamber pots, sweeping fireplaces, preparing baths, refreshing beds, cleaning floors, cleaning everything, really (except for mucking the stables, because there are always others around, grrrr). But he quickly grows nearly *maniac* about Arthur’s food (picking at it as a way to make sure it’s not poisoned etc…) and about Arthur’s armour: it’s one of Arthur’s protections - so you bet Merlin definitely cleans and polishes and repairs and oils the leather ligaments that hold it together and EVERYTHING the hell out of it, with extra ardor and fervor, with his own two hands, all the while continuously trying to put on it any protecting spells he ever finds, and repeating those over and over at each occasion… Also, mirrors were probably not so advanced at the time… But let’s say Merlin has an enhanced one, after all he has magic, right…

On a side note, I’m never going to be over Arthur’s priority-thinking (I’m in trouble = CAMELOT IS UNDER ATTACK (babyyyy let me hold you - being Camelot Prince/King is NOT your only worth) and Merlin’s priority-thinking (what the hell is happening = WHERE THE HELL IS ARTHUR (babyyyy let me hold you - your devotion to The (brave, kind, admirable (shut up Merlin)) Prat doesn’t have to mean that you always must come second (and a bit self-preservation cannot be harmful)) *SIGH* I just love those two idiots so much !!!

III. DISABLED (MERLIN POV)

But soon, Merlin is terrified.

And not because of the puzzling body swap.

*HE HAS NO MAGIC!?*

(Not that Merlin knows of any spell to reverse their current situation at once, mind you; so he doesn’t actually try anything about it. But Merlin simply knows: there is nothing but blood running through his veins now - no vigorous warmth, no energic flow; there is simply nothing singing under his placid flesh, as he focuses on it.)

He cannot help but wish he’s wrong though, and desperately tries to move a quill on Arthur’s desk behind Arthur’s back - the simplest of things, really; yet he fails, indeed…

His magic is tied to his body. Not to his mind.

No, no, no, no, nooooooooooo.

Merlin is, to his core, *terrified* - as he has never been. Not only because he feels more powerless and utterly helpless than he has ever felt - and worse, unable to protect Arthur! But also because the longer Arthur stays in his body, the more chances he has to find out that he has magic!? (And even though Merlin has nearly told Arthur, once? He is still not ready for him to know right now… Will after all didn’t lie to protect Merlin’s secret on his deathbed for Merlin to take chances with his life so soon after…)

Merlin though decides to push his panic aside for the moment: he simply MUST focus. No matter which sorcerer has this week decided to deal with the Pendragon line once and for all, Arthur’s life is undoubtedly in the balance; and that’s dearer to Merlin than all the magic in the world - included his own.

Because Merlin’s life *has* tilted, on that rocky beach by The Great Seas of Meredor.

Merlin’s earnest readiness to lay his life down to save Arthur’s had been instinctive, beyond doubt visceral; and the concrete force of the impulse had surprised him. Because it hadn’t been related to his first supposed then anyway indeed wished upon destiny. It had merely been a reflex, a spontaneous reaction: what he had wanted to do; more than what he ought to do. And Merlin had realized right then that he had, somehow, but undeniably, actually come to *LOVE* Arthur? He had known, for some time, that he liked him. And he had felt oddly pleased when Arthur had turned up at Ealdor - maybe Arthur liked him too? But if your first thought when someone is threatened is ‘I’d rather die than see him die’? Well, there is a kind of selfishness, even in seflessness, that goes beyond ‘liking’, right…

It shouldn’t have been such a shocking revelation though. Sure, Arthur could be a spoiled, royal prat; an irritating, pompous ass; an arrogant, moronic bully - to list but the top of the iceberg of his massive shortcomings, and without even mentioning the complete dollophead he could sometimes be. But Arthur could also be truly brave, honest, and kind; willing not only to trust but also to actually defend the words of mere servants, ready to defy his father’s orders in order to save a child’s life, and volunteering to help a village not even belonging to his Kingdom, to note only a few examples. Also: at some point, Merlin had realized how what could at first appear as near manhandling tactility was in fact just Arthur’s disguised way to show (or ask?) affection (because one probably just doesn’t walk around asking for cuddles while growing up between Uther’s judging cold glares and Morgana’s sharp witty tongue; and the physical occasional playfulness of the knights training must have seemed like the only way to go…). And last but not least: Merlin owed Arthur his life - if Arthur hadn’t gone looking for a Mortaeus flower… So, in short: of course Merlin had gotten fond of the man. For his own values; and not because he was meant to be the other side of his coin or something. And notwithstanding how so annoyingly beautiful he always was (for the record on that particular subject: Gwen is so adorably beautiful, and Morgana so petrifyingly beautiful).

But, as Arthur - bound to be King one day Arthur - hadn’t even hesitate before choosing to sacrifice himself, in order to fix what he had recognized to be his error, instead of using the (even offered) life of a simple servant? Well… There is a difference still between having the conviction that Arthur is a good man ready to fight for the greater good, even knowing it could be his death; and knowing as a FACT that Arthur *is* a good man ready to *die* for the greater good, even knowing it *will* be his death. And you bet having been proven *exactly* how pure of heart Arthur intrinsically is has only cemented that burgeoning love deeper into Merlin’s heart - simply; truly; and maybe irrevocably. Merlin would now willingly die a thousand deaths to save his Prince.

(Feel free to shout with me about 1.11 because *MAJOR FEELS*!)

(And then hug me as I shamelessly cry because this is still NOTHING next to what’s to come - aka Arthur becoming ACHINGLY beautiful, as Merlin turns ready to KILL a thousands times to save his King, blackening his own heart in the process and thinking himself then unworthy of Arthur’s love because Arthur is just so BRIGHT; but wishing for it nonetheless?)

IV. PLANNING (MERLIN POV)

Arthur, miraculously (even though understandably; because he must be shaken too, right), is unaware of Merlin’s internal crisis as he shares what he’s uncovered until now: “It seems to be just us. The kitcheners and the guards all seem to be themselves.”

“So. Whoever has done this is targetting you - personnally.”

“Nice to see your wits are still so very particularly sharp, Merlin. Is there any reason for the one behind all this to be targetting you?”

It is beyond odd to *hear* Arthur’s usual tone in his own voice; but Merlin still has the grace to sigh, before pushing his point further: “But why you?”

“Well, obviously *you*’ve forgotten, but I am Camelot’s Crown Prince, responsib-.”

“Which is exactly what’s bothering me!” Merlin can’t help but interject. “Why take on the Prince when you can take on the King?”

“Oh… Do you think… Could someone be… training on us, then? Before attacking-”

“I honestly have no idea. Maybe you got targetted indeed because you’re head of security. We shouldn’t rule anything out.”

Arthur brings his fist down on the table, determinedly: “Well, whatever the evil plan might be, we just cannot permit for it to work. We’ll have to find a way to stop this nonsense - no offense. In the meantime, we must act as if nothing unusual is going on. It might be for the time being our best chance at keeping Camelot safe - making whoever planned this think the spell didn’t work?”

Merlin can’t help but let out a helpless (yet realistic) sigh: “That’s… a lot; on both accounts.”

Arthur echoes with a helpless sigh of his own: “I know.”

But if they are to keep up pretenses, Merlin is going to need to be prepared: “So. What’s on your agenda for today - besides the monthly open pleas this morning and the daily training this afternoon?”

“Nothing particular. And there are no coming feasts nor abroad visits planned for the coming time, thankfully. (worried sigh) But there’s concil, tomorrow.”

“Well, let’s start at the beginning. I should do fine enough for the pleas. It’s mostly your father’s duty; your presence is required, of course, but mostly you’re to hear and listen…” Fear grips Merlin at once: “But it’s public; so it would be a great opportunity to try to murder you!” He MUST protect Arthur’s body: “Will you please go fetch your chainmail in my room?”

“No.”

The tone is definitive, and Merlin is torn between begging, or growing impatient - because Arthur can be so obtuse sometimes (now really isn’t the time for Arthur to be feeling indignation about being ordered around like a simple servant; even though he *is* one at the moment - not that Merlin would ever think he was one, of course - but what if Arthur thinks he does and enjoys the chance at some payback?): “Arthur, please (again?). It’s the expected type of errands of the body you momentarily (because it MUST be momentarily, right?) inhabit - I can’t - You’re the target. I need your chainmail. I have no fighting skills, nor any kind of skills really to protect yo-”

“I cannot be seen wandering the castle in my chainmail without reason, Merlin; it would attract attention”, Arthur interrupts in a somehow gentler tone; and Merlin realizes that Arthur hadn’t registered at first how Merlin’s concern was about him, more than himself - and is obviously humbled by the thought. “Court clothes are required, anyway. We’re not supposed to look threatening, nor threatened, when our subjects come to present their wishes,” Arthur pursues, killing any possible protest in the bud. “Besides, the guards will be present. So don’t worry too much about anything happening to us”, Arthur ends in a lower voice; as if the last part had been more a thought to reassure himself than a phrase meant to be uttered - and Merlin just has to savour that precious 'us’…

Merlin though isn’t reassured enough about his Prince’s safety: “Please (yes, that’s thrice; adamant much?) Sire, at least allow me to wear your thickest leather under your tunic” - willing his voice to make it sound like a not-to-be-denied demand more than a true question.

Arthur holds his gaze; and it actually feels like a blessing when he finally relents: “As you wish; but it won’t be comfortable against naked skin.”

“I’ll manage.” Merlin can’t help but fidget some before pursuing - asking Arthur to do what is and should be *his* work feeling not only weird but even wrong: “But I’ll need your help to tie it in the back?”

Arthur dimissively tousles his hair, grumbling: “I *know*, Merlin.” 'My clothes’ going unsaid.

Merlin can be relieved about one thing, at least: Arthur obviously isn’t piqued about doing a servant’s work…

Merlin picks out the largest fitting of Arthur’s clothes. He puts on the braies and trousers while still wearing the gown, respectfully tying the belt blindly around his waist. He puts on socks, and shoes. Then only does he take the gown off, and turns his back towards Arthur so that he may help with adjusting the leather’s straps.

A surprised but definitely pleased whisper (“Impressive, ain’t I?”) echoes in Merlin’s ears, as the Prat Prince seems apparently unable not to comment about his damn broad back, angling Merlin shortly that way and this way as if to assess it even better.

'Believe me, I know’, Merlin can’t refrain from thinking; feeling a blush coming over his face, and thankful that Arthur is too busy looking at his own back to notice any of it.

“I think I might even have outgrown Sir Leon - in width at least if not in height”, Arthur concludes proudly before finally starting to work the ties - leaving Merlin suddenly ashamed of his initial internal reprimand, and oddly upset. Of course Arthur would only wish to see in his physique the strength of a warrior. Of course his first thought, when finally able to actually see his own back, would be to compare it to his given models - the Knights; and most of all among them, to his own chosen model, Leon - both the noblest and strongest of them all, yet young enough to play the part of the older brother Arthur could look up to while growing up… No one has probably ever told him that he is beautiful, Merlin realizes sadly. But the fact that Arthur is so unaware only makes him even more beautiful in Merlin’s eyes…

Merlin forces himself to tease Arthur, hiding his turmoil under their usual banter: “Well, I could ask Gabriel to take measurements, if you so badly wish-”

“Shut up, Merlin”, accompanied by a rewarding hit in the back of his right shoulder, which Merlin gladly revels in, no matter the unusual fist size. This, no matter their predicament, feels normal.

And in that short moment of normalcy, when everything feels just right as Arthur ends tying the leather, Merlin notices something he hasn’t noticed before, when all he could feel was STRESS.

Oh no.

“Sire?” Merlin can’t help but wince at the intimidated tone in his voice as he turns around; and Arthur is eyeing him now with furrowed eyebrows. “I think I need - I mean you need… to… have to go?”

Arthur makes a face - with his face; except it still looks somehow like a typical outraged Arthur face (damn, this is just too confusing…): “Merlin!”

“He! Do not look at me like this is my fault! It’s *YOUR* body! Maybe you shouldn’t have drun-”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have brought a full pitcher at dinner then!”

They eye each other, both unrelenting over who is at fault.

And Merlin can’t help but think that somehow he is, indeed, no matter what. Because there are levels in intimacy; and he IS definitely crossing a line. There is a difference between being around and trying to avoid his gaze when Arthur walks in and out of his bath, or applying Gaius’s healing balm to bruises on Arthur’s back because it’s a place Arthur can’t reach on his own, and, well… watching and touching Arthur’s *manhood*, even if only for urinating, technically ensuring no mess is done while doing it?

Arthur suddenly sighs though, and his voice sounds kinder as he offers: “This will surely happens a few times before we sort it all out, huh. To the both of us. So. How should we proceed?”

Merlin scratches his head, summoning some courage: “Do you want to… hold-”

“Your hand, Merlin!”, Arthur demonstrates, lifting the would-be-culprit in the air and wiggling its fingers for good measure; and that’s a 'No way’ if Merlin ever heard one…

“Would you rather it to be your hand-”

“It’s *your* hand right now!” Indeed. So. Another 'No way’.

But suddenly Merlin has a solution, of sort: “What if I… go sit into the stream? There’s a quiet spot not so far from the castle I found while collecting herbs for Gaius… If I hurry I still can make it back before the pleas.”

Arthur actually claps his hands, obviously relieved: “Sometimes, I swear, you are a genius.” He hurries over, handing Merlin his tunic and grabbing the Pendragon red doublet before marching out: “Let’s go!”

“You’re coming?” (hastening to put the tunic on and grabbing a towel before following)

“Well, as I just said, it’s bound to happen to me - you - so I might just as well tag along, and know where it is.”

Once out of potentially spying ears reach, they plan the day further.

“We HAVE to tell Gaius, at the least, about our situation: no one will contest his word if he says you’re not to train for a while - because honestly how am I supposed to spare with your Knights? They will notice right away that something isn’t right. And, well…”

Merlin hesitates, not wanting to incriminate Gaius in any way. As it turns out, he doesn’t have to:

“You’re right. Besides, Gaius has heard about a lot of… stuff, in all his years. I was planning to go around Jeffrey and look for the forbidden books, but I have no ideas how many volumes are hidden down here, nor where they even *are* to start with… If anyone we know might have even the slightest clue about how to fix our problem, it’s him; even if it’s only about finding an adequate book.”

Merlin nods, relieved: “So. After the pleas, I stage a fall, and we go to Gaius, who tells you’re not to train for the time being. That leaves the rest of the day free, both for looking up about our situation, and briefing me on what I should be aware of for tomorrow’s concil. Do you address things in an established order; who’s whose specialisms; what you discussed by the latest concils which might be brought up again tomorrow; and so on…”

“I’m supposed to make the battle plans, Merlin? But as far as plans go, I have to admit this isn’t a bad one. Except I’m not you; I do not trip on my feet twice a day. So. I’ll make you fall. That’s more plausible.”

“No way! You’ll end up in the stocks!” Merlin realizes how - no matter what he might have been thinking just a few months ago - he simply doesn’t want Arthur in the stocks. Ever. “Which is NOT where you should be spending your afternoon.” Merlin quickly amends; hiding his concern under logic’s sake, knowing it to be the best way to persuade Arthur anyway. “So. You fall. I try to help you. But we both fall. I’m clumsy, as ever; you’re noble, as always; everyone get to laugh at me, and praise you; and your father might skip punishing me for you getting hurt in the process, as you obviously didn’t want me hurt to start with?” (pause, before adding earnestly, yet fiercely, as Merlin isn’t able to tone back the surge of threat in his eyes at the mere idea of having anyone disrespecting Arthur in that way) “If he doesn’t though, I’ll stand guard next to you.”

“Would you?” Arthur seems surprised; but touched: “Well, who knows, maybe I’ll return the favor the next time.”

Merlin can’t refrain a whine: “The next time?”

“Even I can’t save you from my father’s wrath every time; it’s bound to happen, either from your two left foots or your snarky mouth.”

They can hear the water now, and Arthur accelerates towards it, as Merlin lags behind, unable not to smile:

“I guess I’m supposed to say 'thank you’?”

“I might have forgotten to mention I’ll probably throw something in your face myself at the last moment. Prince’s privilege and all that…” - Arthur even turns towards him, giving him one of his goofy faces to boot (Merlin didn’t know *his* face could do *that*, by the way).

Merlin just keeps on smiling anyway. He probably hasn’t felt that brightly, positively, ridiculously happy since “I’m rehiring you - because someone needs to muck out my stables”. Arthur has a particular way to express fondness, and Merlin wouldn’t change it for the world.

V. THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT MERLIN (ARTHUR POV)

Arthur is the first to reach the stream, and crouches down to test the water with his hand.

“It’s cold”, he warns, while Merlin walks in a straight line towards a tree with a low hanging branch and starts undressing - he does come here often, clearly.

Merlin shrugs: “Be grateful it’s not winter yet. Try bathing around Imbolc - that’s cold.” Merlin goes on; stating an afterthought while hanging his pants on the branch: “Still worth it though; everything here is just more… alive, you know. You don’t get that indoors.”

And Arthur has bathed on patrols enough to know that, honestly?: he prefers his warm baths. He can’t help but feel a smile on his face though at the words; they are so intrinsically Merlin.

Arthur had been struck, when they had met. No one had ever defied him, in any way. And it had stung; Arthur could admit. So. He had not been displeased at all when he had overmastered the fool and turned him over. The affront had been too public to be allowed to slide, and Arthur had decided he wouldn’t dwell a further thought about the goodhearted fool (Arthur knew terrorrizing people wasn’t right. He tended though to react badly whenever anyone acted cowardly (which was, well, all the time, around him); especially as he was actually *praised* for it somehow), but fool nonetheless, who should have known to mind his own business…

It had been nothing though in comparison to his surprise when their paths had crossed again. Arthur hadn’t been able NOT to taunt him - hoping, somehow… But the last thing Arthur had been actually expecting had been for Merlin to act *exactly the same*. Surely, now that he knew who he was, he would just scrabble around him as anyone else - not defy him again, knowing it would get him in chains again, right? Arthur had been *delighted* by Merlin’s untamable fire - the words, and then the look he had thrown at him while taking his jacket off? (Maybe Arthur had just been waiting all his life for someone to finally stand his ground to him, indeed…) Of course Arthur had let him go without punishment that second time - and any time since then (which was honestly difficult, as Merlin - always fighting for what was right more than for himself Merlin - frequently got riled up, be it in private OR IN PUBLIC, by literally anyone and anything).

Since he has been to Ealdor though, Arthur can’t help but see things under a new light.

Hunith is everything Arthur believes a loving mother to be. But there had been no father at home, nor any mention of one. (Arthur knows the sting of this kind of wound - missing a parent; and he had been saddened, as he had realized that Merlin bore such a wound too.) Arthur hadn’t dared to ask, but he had wondered: did Merlin ever got a father to start with; or had he been abandoned - intentionally or not? (Arthur knows how even an accident still feels akin to a betrayal in a child’s heart.) Which would be the worst anyway? But what if Merlin had been bullied through his childhood because of it? - children could be particularly malicious, when they intended to… Was it how Merlin had learned, the hard way, that fighting - both with his words and his fists - was the only way to end the pestering? And had decided it wouldn’t be only for his own sake, but for the sake of anyone who might ever need help? Was it what had brought Merlin close to Will - the fact that they both had lost their father? Was it the reason Will had wanted to learn magic to start with? (Arthur knows the near constant anger, too. As does Merlin, obviously.)

Arthur can’t help but feel grateful anew, somehow, and no matter what, still, that Merlin has had Will around: surely, no matter how bad the fights Merlin had jumped into, Will must have kept him safe - at least safe enough - *with his magic*. The thought had been unbidden the first time it had occured, and had definitely surprised Arthur; but he hadn’t been able to deny that it was what he truly felt indeed.

Because of course Arthur had come to care for Merlin. Isn’t it why he had gone to Ealdor to start with after all…

Merlin.

Definitely not an ordinary manservant. And probably not the champion manservant by any book (fast learner, and smart, and hard working, he was; but only about what *he* deemed important - hence for example his total disregard for any kind of storage? - but Arthur generally agreed with what Merlin deemed important or not anyway). But honestly the only manservant Arthur now could imagine ever having - or ever want to have.

Because Arthur likes Merlin as his manservant exactly just the way he is, and would now never wish for another - no matter (and specifically because of) how well-schooled and zealous to satisfy his every need (and whim) that hypothetic other might be… Arthur now sees what others might judge flaws as assets (Merlin’s clumsiness and chattiness are more endearing and uplifting than unefficient, especially as his opinions always sound reasonable; his sarcasm and insults are a sure way to keep Arthur’s head from ever getting inflated; and his challenging manners push Arthur to do and be better - from training with the knights to saving people’s lifes), and what others might judge insubordinate as being treated, for once, finally, as an equal, somehow (even though they both know and acknowledge they aren’t) - no matter whenever it comes out at Arthur’s expanse too, food getting shoved into his mouth and getting unceremoniously pulled out of bed included in their everyday banter, as Merlin can give just as much as he gets indeed. But that’s maybe what Arthur values the most: how Merlin’s respect feels earned and honest; neither forced by birthright or fear for repercussions, nor cajoling nor calculated.

Arthur has never had a private servant for longer than a year - his Father’s rule; but you bet Arthur is decided about keeping Merlin at his side when the year would end. He will have to strategize; he will need irrefutable arguments. But if he plays his cards well - and Merlin never ceases to hand him over cards to play - Arthur has no doubt that his Father will actually allow it: it’s in the best interest of the Kingdom after all.

Merlin.

A whirlwind. Always animated, always busy; never still, even when he’s doing nothing. But always so expressive - so easy to read - a fact Arthur has come not only to appreciate after decades around perpetually guarded scheming faces, but even to *trust*.

A chatty nature-loving poet with dangly limbs, gentle heart, and the brightest smile Arthur has ever seen - Arthur has come to know. Yet the sassiest mouth and the most unrelenting fighter Arthur has ever met; his utter lack of skills balanced by sheer defiance - Arthur has learned right from the start. (Merlin just never backs off, no matter the odds; which is very stupid, but also very brave.)

A confusing, clashing mess of contraries. But an admirable man, with a beautiful soul.

And you bet Arthur wouldn’t have him be any different.

Arthur shakes his head. Maybe - just like with his two left feet - it isn’t Merlin’s choice to be such a poet all the time. Arthur hasn’t been inside Merlin’s body for more than a few hours, and already he is turning into a maudlin bard himself, huh…

Arthur sighs; bringing himself back to the present - only to be struck by Merlin yet again.

Merlin has by now disrobed of everything except for the leather, which he has rolled up to his chest (logic; it would take too much time to tie it up all once more), and the tunic, which he now holds tightly in a bundle against his chest too, even if (and no doubt exactly because) it must get in his vision range as he enters the water. The lengths Merlin now goes again, simply to avoid to *see* - treating his body with the utmost respect, even when it is betraying him?

It should be insignificant, but the whole endeavour screams once more just how *devoted* Merlin always is, to him; and it is honestly dumbfounding.

He has been willing to die for me. And more than once.

The thought slices through Arthur’s mind; as usual charged with guilt, and heartbreaking, yet oddly sweet.

Arthur doesn’t understand: he has truly done very little to earn such high esteem - and that’s an euphemism. Getting the man in the stocks? Letting him drink poison destined for him? Having his only friend die?

But you bet Arthur cherishes it all the same. And he wants - oh, he WANTS - to be worthy of it. Not because it’s what he ought to do, repaying kindness with kindness, loyalty with loyalty; and definitely not because he owes Merlin a friend - you can’t replace a friend (even if Arthur never actually had a friend, he knows that it’s supposed to be a special, powerful, unique bond). Not even because Merlin does indeed makes him want to be a better man - even if that’s true, and definitely positive for the future of Camelot. But simply because HE. WANTS. TO. Arthur has realized by now how he is always tempted, whenever they are together: either to act silly in order to cause a smile; or to provoke Merlin until he bites. Both reactions feel peculiarly satisfying; spreading a pleasant warmth through his whole being - and Arthur just always has to smile…

So.

On impulse, Arthur disrobes Merlin’s lower half and enters the (indeed very cold) water while holding his tunic bundled up too, keeping his eyes stubbornly fixed on his own body sinking until the water reaches up to above its waist, as Merlin sits on his knees in the middle of the stream. And yes, the fact that Arthur has just chosen to abide by Merlin’s stubborn dedication on that matter, instead of letting his perpetual interest about literally everything run free, for once, (because yes, if he hadn’t witnessed Merlin’s commitment, Arthur might have taken a look at Merlin’s body, out of sheer curiosity; he wouldn’t though, not from now on…), is both a pledge and a self-serving whim.

Merlin, drawn by the sounds, turns to him with questioning eyebrows, and Arthur sheepishly drops on his knees next to him: “I thought it unfair to let you have all the fun on your own. Now, ready to scare the fish?”

Merlin howls with laughter. Arthur decides it’s definitely worth playing silly while freezing his ass off.

(Imbolc = 31 january)

Feel free to come and fangirl with me over 1.01 and then scream with me over 1.10 !

On a side note, I’m sorry but not sorry about that fish line? It was *totally* unplanned but then it just rolled out and I went 'yep, sure, arthur would, totally; it stays!’ ?

VI. THE PRINCE’S PART (ALTERNATE ARTHUR/MERLIN POV)

They get out; get dried; put their clothes back on. Merlin ties the towel to the branch, for future use.

Then, on their way back to the castle, Arthur asks Merlin about his agenda for the day.

Merlin gives him a look - like he’s unsure whether Arthur means it. Arthur gives him a look back - meaning he isn’t joking indeed.

Merlin smiles, eyes full of mirth: “Your chambers are a complete mess, your clothes need washing, your boots need cleaning, your dogs need exercising, your fireplace needs sweeping, your bed needs changing and, oh, *someone* needs to muck out your stables.” Merlin sobers up. “But we have more pressing matters at hand; so I think you can consider yourself free for the day.”

Arthur is taken aback. He recognizes his own words, of course. It’s both baffling and humbling - that Merlin can quote him, months later? and that Merlin has omitted one part and one part only in his old speech, because they both know his armour doesn’t need any repairing (the devotion Merlin shows those metal pieces echoing the devotion he shows to Arthur himself)? Arthur had first planned to give a playful thankful bow; but it would feel wrong.

“So. I’ll go bother Geoffrey. Try to get him to show me where the secret books are hidden. I’ll tell him Gaius has found a strange herb and wants to make sure it isn’t dangerous or something…”

Merlin has to give Arthur that: he is indeed insightful.

The mention of Gaius’s name though has Merlin slightly panicking again: Gaius doesn’t know yet about their current situation. What if he mentions 'something’ upon walking on Arthur thinking he is him? No. Merlin has to be there when they’ll get to see Gaius.

“Speaking about Gaius? Stay clear from his chambers. I doubt he’ll be as magnanimous as I am. He’ll do that thing with his eyebrow and have you pick herbs and brewing healing potions and concocting ointments before you even got a chance to tell him about our predicament - he’s really dedicated in my education as a physician, you know…”

“And I believe you rather enjoy it.”

“I do, indeed. I mean… It’s fascinating - do you know that the same stuff can cure you or kill you sometimes, depending on the dosis? Anyway, who wouldn’t want to know how to save lives?” Merlin can’t help but twitch. “I’m not sure I’m any good at it though…”

There is a flash of guilt in Merlin’s disheartened eyes, and Arthur realizes two things:

1) Merlin feels responsible for having been unable to save his friend Will. Which is understandable, because Merlin must have gathered by now some knowledge from Gaius’s lessons; but heartbreaking - because Arthur has seen enough arrow’s wounds to know that Will’s could never have healed - and perplexing - because Will has died to save *him*, not Merlin; so why would Merlin think the guilt was his to start with? and how come Arthur has never felt like Merlin might blame him for it either?

2) Merlin’s face is always *transparent* - a fact Arthur truly appreciates on Merlin’s face - but a fact that could turn out problematic, now that it’s on his own face…

“Let’s get back to my chambers. There is still something you should master better before the pleas.”

And that’s how Merlin finds himself positioned by Arthur in front of a mirror.

“What do you see, Merlin?” Arthur asks.

“Well, you?” Merlin feels he’s missing Arthur’s point, but he has no clue…

“Do you? Because I see my body, I see my clothes; but I do not see the Prince of Camelot - I’d like to think I play it better than that - and I must be, because my Father would not allow *this* I assure you - at least I hope or the kingdom is doomed.” Arthur ends on a sigh, shakes his head, and then turns commanding eyes back towards Merlin via the mirror. “Close your eyes, Merlin. Think of me. I mean, *picture* me; and more especially, picture me at any official activity you’ve served me through. See how I walk, how I stand, how I sit, how I move, how I look?”

Merlin does as asked, searching through his memories. After a while, he nods.

“Got it?”

“I think?”

“Then open your eyes, Merlin. What do you see?”

Merlin understands now. He can’t help but sigh helplessly. “Not the Prince of Camelot. Obviously. I’m sorry, Sire, I guess I’m just not… majestic enough to play you.”

“It’s not that hard, Merlin. Come on; I’ll explain. Ready?” Arthur grins at him via the mirror, exuding confidence - trust in him?; and Merlin would face (has faced) monsters to earn it indeed.

Merlin nods, their eyes still linked via the mirror.

“First thing first? You’re slouching.”

“Yes. (Merlin tries not to slouch; but is still not satisfied with the result) I think though the biggest problem is- There’s something wrong with your face.”

“Because you wear your heart on it, Merlin; and you mustn’t. Believe me, you do not want to be lectured for hours about this by my Father…”

Arthur moves away, and Merlin can’t see him anymore in the mirror. His voice is directing though, and Merlin focuses on the words to school his face.

“You’re a prince, so you *must* always look like one. No matter what you do, you must always, *always*, look confident. That’s the first strength of a kingdom - the strenghth of its ruler. That’s what keeps your people safe. So. Chin up, Merlin. Square your shoulders. Stand tall - stand *proud*.”

Merlin realizes the words are not Arthur’s; they’re Uther’s. He wonders how often indeed Arthur has heared those words - most probably often enough to give himself a internal pep talk before any official anything apparently…

“That’s better; but still not good enough. No matter how you feel inside must not show, Merlin. When you’re tired, hide it. When you’re sick, hide it. When you hurt, hide it. When you’re stressed, hide it. When you worry, hide it. When you doubt, hide it. When you’re bored, and even more when you disagree; hide it - it’s disrespectful; and we do not want wounded pride to fester, don’t we Merlin? When you’re afraid, definitely hide it. When you’re sad, hide it. And the trickiest part maybe: when you’re happy, hide it too - or risk whatever is making you happy to be taken away: weakening you is weakening the kingdom; and its enemies will never hesitate to bring you down, if you let them see even an inch of an opportunity.”

Merlin is shaken. He feels guilty, somehow. This is, certainly, too intimate. Merlin feels like he’s intruding. This feels even more trespassing than being in Arthur’s body. It’s like being forced in Arthur’s head, without his consent. It’s nauseating.

“Again, Merlin. Your eyes; focus. It’s a part; but it’s part of your job. So for the love of Camelot, Merlin, please try harder. Your people reckon on you to lead them and protect them; so it’s your duty to be a leader, and to be strong. Work hard; harder than anyone else. You *must* be an example, an inspiration. You must be admirable in everything, so that your people will follow you everywhere. But you must lead, Merlin; never follow. A ruler is alone - *must* be alone. Do not trust anyone; at least do not trust anyone more than anyone else, and surely not more than you trust yourself. Your own judgement must *never* be clouded.”

Merlin can’t help but turn towards Arthur at the words, both in disbelief and in ache… Because Merlin has grown up hiding, but he had never realized that Arthur had, too; and maybe even more than him. Arthur must not only always pretend and perpetually watch over his shoulder; he must pretend and watch over his shoulder *alone*. And Merlin can only imagine how hard that must have been, and be. Back at Ealdor, Merlin had (and still has) his loving mother, and he had Will. Even here, now, Merlin has Gaius. And somehow, yes: he has Arthur too, Merlin suddenly realizes; and then feels ashamed, because he can’t help but feel blessed - Arthur trusts him. Because Arthur is definitely less guarded around him, isn’t he? When it’s just the two of them; Arthur and Merlin? Arthur laughs, Arthur doubts, Arthur *shows*; maybe not everything - but that’s probably not possible as he is so trained - but something at least always shines through; even if it’s by putting his feet on his face… But Merlin knows now, how rare and precious it truly is. They can never be friends, maybe; but Arthur trusts him. That’s undeniable; and that’s everything, somehow.

“Do not look at me; look at the mirror, Merlin. Harden your eyes. Smile; always politely, even when you don’t want to smile at all; more genuinely, when it’s true - but never let it go up to your eyes. First thing about tomorrow too; as we’re at it. Hear everyone out. Listen with your full attention to everyone; whether you agree or not. Never decides right away; except if it’s necessary, in war time. Your decisions must be thought upon; never a spur of the moment. If something is unclear, do not let it show during concil. If you favor a position, do not let it show during concil. If you disagree, do not let it show during concil. You need further advice, or even only further information? Seek the appropriate person in private; ask man to man. They will see the honor in it if it’s positive, and be thankful you kept it private if it’s negative. Also. You must be ready to be impartial, Merlin; because you do not need to be kind, but you must always be fair. You may - and you will, unfortunately - make mistakes; but never ackowledge them. Fix them. If you can’t; repair as much damage as possible. Learn from your errors, in order to never make the same mistake again. But never apologize. Come on Merlin; I’m sure you can do it. You’re nearly there.”

More over, Merlin realizes the Arthur he gets to see nowadays - the true Arthur - has always been there already, even under the pretense of the moron. Kilgarrah is wrong. His destiny isn’t to change Arthur; because there is nothing to change. Arthur already has everything to be a great king, the greatest king, all on his own.

And so, Merlin is *angry*. He has now yet another reason to despise Uther, it seems - scarring his child on the inside in such a way. Of course Arthur always feels inadequate; of course Arthur feels lacking; of course the only bond Arthur values is the one with his fellow knights - ride to glory or death, together? It’s the only bond Uther has authorized him to authorize himself to ever have… But Merlin’s anger is a good thing, apparently - because whenever Merlin thinks about Uther, Arthur finds that he’s playing the Prince’s part better.

“There Merlin, you have it. See? Right there. Lock it; just like that. That’s good enough for anyone looking today; because believe me, someone *will* be looking, even if only my Father and not the one who switched us or anyone else with ill intentions - there is *always* *someone* looking, Merlin.”

Fine. Think about Uther; until the pleas are done. Merlin can do it; and he’ll gladly do it. He’ll probably gladly do anything; for Arthur. He can still have a cry or hit a wall afterwards, right…

Arthur needs a hug. I volunteer. Anyone with me? (besides Merlin, obviously…)

VII. DOOMED (ARTHUR POV)

With a last commanding yet encouraging nod, Arthur leaves Merlin by the Great Hall’s entrance and starts to make his way towards the Library.

He is stopped by Merlin’s name being called out twice - because he has failed to react right away; Arthur chastises himself. It is the headmaster recruiting hands: his Father wants his bath ready when the pleas end.

Arthur doesn’t want to bring Merlin in trouble, of course; so he takes on the ordered job - after all, how complicated can it be?

He is paired with a newcomer answering the name of George who looks up to him as if he holds the sun: the Prince’s manservant! Which isn’t that bad. Until he starts, seemingly embarrassed but curious all the same, to ask questions like “Is the Prince as terrible as they say?” or “Is it true he throws knives?” and such? Arthur tries to explain that the training field is, well, to train? He isn’t sure the message gets across though, as George only holds his eyes with a perplexed gaze…

Arthur can’t help but hope that Merlin at least understands that he’s not only training himself but also trying to get Merlin to know how to defend himself if not to attack whenever he comes at him with a mace or anything… He should maybe make his intentions clearer, apparently…

Anyway. After yet another round of carrying buckets full of cold or warmed-up water up and down and left and right, Arthur realises there is more to it than it looks; and the bath is only half full still…

And when they’re nearly done? His three coworkers and the headmasteer seem satisfied, but Arthur can’t help but think while bringing up the last two buckets that they achieved nothing more than a luke warm bath with a clean but no particular scent. Merlin’s baths are definitely of a superior category on both accounts, and Arthur doesn’t know if he should feel guilty and spoiled for regularly enjoying better baths than the king himself, or more amazed or worried about Merlin’s bath-preparing skills (is he even thinking about his safety? he wouldn’t actually carry boiling water up the stairs, would he?)

Arthur decides he should address the issue. And maybe take baths downstairs from now on just in case - a little backroom near the kitchen would be more practical than his chambers, wouldn’t it? When the space isn’t needed for banquets preparations and such of course…

Arthur misses the first step towards the second floor (it’s actually the eleventh time today that he misses a step - he still isn’t used to Merlin’s feet). This time though, his balance is too lost for him to compensate and he falls backwards, landing on his butt and ready to get soaked and hit by the water and buckets he has released when instinctively freeing his hands (one to help catch his fall; one to protect himself from the falling projectiles). Except nothing comes: no water, no hit - and no falling sound either. And when Arthur takes a look? The buckets and water are… floating above his head?

Arthur gasps in surprise, his mind going both blank and reeling…

Then only does Arthur finally get drenched and hit on the shoulder.

Arthur blinks. Twice.

What has just happened isn’t normal, at all. Only - only magic could make such a thing possible!

Arthur looks around, instinctively - scanning for a threat.

He is alone; the corridors are empty as far as he can see, and he hears no voices, nor steps.

Which is good, because no one is attacking him then.

Which is the worst though - because if there is no one around… then the only person responsible for what he has just witnessed must be - is - HIMSELF?!

Arthur gasps again; this time in panick.

His first instinct is denial. But he knows what he saw. And somehow, it just makes sense, doesn’t it?

It’s not the body of the Prince that whoever switched him and Merlin is after. It’s his mind…

Put him in the body of a servant, give him magic, and sooner or later (and most probably sooner) he is bound to die by his Father’s law. What is he supposed to say in his defense? That he IS the Prince, in another body which had been given an ounce of magic on the sole purpose of getting him executed? Who would ever believe him…

In the meantime, the schieming sorcerer must have judged that a servant in his body may be too delighted by the upgrade in status to be a threat to his plans and would gladly unknowingly collaborate, on top of being totally untrained and incompetent at any of his duties.

Then? One only has to kill the King, either by making him ‘ill’ or using the same trick again and - for sure - Camelot is doomed to get wiped out from the map by the first band of Saxons passing by (and most probably enticed to pass by very soon after its King’s death): its only true heir gone, and the supposed one obviously improper to defend it. All of it without casualties on the attacking side, and without anyone knowing how it all came to be, which means no one, even loyal to Camelot, would have a reason to stand against the new regime put in place.

Arthur is more afraid than he has ever been - and he has been in combat enough for that fact to mean something. He feels crushed; defeated, even before the battle - and honestly? He has never despised himself that much. No matter that he has never felt both so unprepared and so intrinsically useless - and not even able to trust himself: surrender is simply inexcusable. Camelot depends on it.

Besides, Arthur owes it to Merlin to fight, right. It’s after all Merlin’s body that’s to die along his spirit. Oh! The villainy, the cowardice in this attack! Use an innocent victim as a vessel to be sacrificed. Sorcerers definitely have no sense of honor indeed.

So. Arthur is angry now. A much more suited mindset, he decides - as long as he doesn’t allow it to blind him. And he won’t. Merlin’s body depends on it too.

Arthur takes a deep breath. He has been taught strategy even before he could talk, right? Time to make a plan of action.

First. He is not as alone as Camelot’s enemy has calculated him to be. He is, in fact, not alone at all. He has Merlin.

Loyal Merlin; not only willing but even devoted to getting back into his own servant body rather than happily playing the prince. Magic familiar and open-minded Merlin - which means Arthur has not only someone who won’t judge him nor fear him to confide in about his new endangering (and in so many ways) abilities, but also someone who might have some basic understanding of it; since he was Will’s friend? Heart-in-the-right-place Merlin: too kind, maybe (but he can at least get aware of it enough in order not to be lead only by it); but naturally just and fair Merlin. Brave, fierce, tenacious Merlin; too reckless though (but again: he can at least get aware of it enough in order not to be lead only by it). Ressourceful Merlin, fast-learning Merlin: he would master his body’s strength, eventually; and Leon would be here to lead the Knights in the meantime… Arthur takes an oath. Even if they fail to find a solution to their problem, Camelot won’t be left unprotected. Come what may; even the worst? Merlin *will* be ready to take his place. Having Merlin’s unique edges smoothed out feels wrong; but it just has to be for show, right?

Second. Well, there is no really second yet; at least not more than what they have already planned. They need to find some books - and pray that they will be useful. And Arthur will just have to be particularly attentive about not repeating the kind of blunder he just did with witnesses present.

Yes. Merlin. Books. Start at the beginning; and with luck, it might just work out in the end.

Arthur cleans up as best as he can, using and wringing his soaked tunic in the buckets, then runs to Merlin’s room for a set of dried clothes. Turning up to retake his place at 'Arthur’’s side while drenched would only draw unwanted attention…

So. Basically? Yep. This is a magic-reveal unreveal fic. But. I mean… It’s Arthur? Also: this fic (to me) is canon (fitting) - so it just can’t be a reveal fic. Bonus: it explains too why Arthur doesn’t get the courage-magic-strength trio hint later on. He thinks Merlin is magic; but only because there is some residual trace to sense from when his body had magic (aka this fic), not that he actually has magic still at the time… Arthur can be at the same time very aware yet very unaware, and he can be so very biased and decided to see things his way, no matter how circumvoluted, right? (Also, of course Arthur thinks in fact then that HE is magic in the trio: he was after all the one inside Merlin when his body had magic; and Merlin IS courage - Arthur has such a low self-esteem to start with…)

On a side note: Arthur would actually trust Merlin with Camelot (even despite his limits). If that doesn’t tell you all there is to tell then I don’t know how to express it. *SIGH* *GROSS SOBBING* (Gwen though is innately made to be Queen - but Arthur doesn’t know that yet. He isn’t wrong about Merlin though - for Arthur’s memory? Merlin would do his best to be a great King too, you bet…) *GROSS SOBBING AGAIN*

VIII. MERLIN’S CHAINMAIL (ARTHUR POV)

“Merlin! My boy! You’re soaked! Did you provoke Arthur again and end up under the well for it this time?”

Great. Gaius sounds half amused half concerned. Does actually *everyone* think him to be a brute?

Well; nevermind. Merlin knows better, right - and that's what matters. Merlin is never backing away, Merlin is never really complaining; Merlin just watches him with mirth in his challenging eyes: I dare you. Of course Arthur HAS TO then... It's like... kind of a private wordless conversation only the two of them understand. But honestly? Arthur wouldn't trespass Merlin's limits - if anything, Arthur would probably even feel guilty, if Merlin actually ever made one known...

But then, Gaius is patting his shoulder, pushing him towards 'his’ room; and Arthur is stunned silent, as he can’t help but relish on the (for him unusual) affectionate paternalistic small gesture.

“Get changed. Get warmed up. You’ll tell me later. I haven’t heard the bell signaling the end of the pleas, it is already so late? I’ve just finished Sir Kay’s potion, and it should be drinken warm, as you know; so I’d better be on my way. We’ll prepare Uther’s draught and the balm for Little Kathleen’s knee when I’m back. Also, I’m afraid I’ve ruined my coat; if you could work your magic on it next time you’re mending Arthur’s clothes, I’d be very much obliged?”

And then Gaius is gone, and Arthur is still stunned, but now for another reason - it was but a polite turn of phrase, of course, and Arthur knows Merlin just isn’t capable of miracles, as proven by the state of some of his shirts - beyond mending; but Gaius would better not use some idioms that carelessly around the palace - who knows who might hear and takes things the wrong way… Arthur shakes his head as he hurries to change, feeling sorry for letting Gaius down, but not planning to stay around until Gaius comes back - he wouldn’t know anyway how to prepare his Father’s nor Kathleen’s medicine, right…

Arthur opens Merlin’s cupboard.

There are only two folded set of clothes (neckerchief included indeed), and Arthur just takes the one on top.

He’s about to close the door when his eyes fall on Merlin’s chainmail.

The first time Arthur had told Merlin that he had been assigned to lead some patrol, Merlin had right away asked:

“When do we leave?”

Arthur had been surprised, then had tilted his head, apprehending Merlin while explaining that coming along was to be Merlin’s choice; and not per se his duty as palace manservant. They usually asked for volunteers; there was extra coin to be earned and such.

Merlin had only repeated:

“Sire; when do we leave?”

Arthur had been surprised again, but definitely pleased:

“Tomorrow at first light.”

“I’d better start packing right away then. What do you need?”

After having listed their necessities, Arthur had mentioned that he would have a chainmail sent to Gaius’s for Merlin to wear. Merlin had countered that he had no wish for carrying extra weight around as it would only slow him down in his chores; and that he would rather wear his everyday clothes. Arthur had said it was folly to go unprotected - they would patrol the borders, and thiefs and saxons could fall on them - and Merlin had finally relented some and agreed to wear a chainmail he would self adapt as he wished above some clothing but under his tunic. Arthur had been suspicious when Merlin had turned up the next morning without even a cap showing out, and had actually moved his neckerchief aside to make sure Merlin was wearing metal under his tunic…

Without hesitation, Arthur takes the chainmail out too, deciding he should wear it under his clothes. After all, the longer Arthur might succeed in hiding his new abilities, the more chances there are that the one responsible for their troubles might choose to turn to more expeditive measures of his own. Killing a servant might go unnoticed for awhile, and would work just as well in case whoever had planned this got tired of waiting for Arthur to betray himself and get executed. Which means that Merlin’s body is just walking around as a mark waiting to get hit… and Arthur should do his best to protect it. Merlin’s chainmail is barely worth its name; but it does cover his chest, belly and back, at least.

Arthur makes it back to the Great Hall right on time for the end of the pleas. It was the moment they had planned to stage for Arthur’s injury; but Arthur discretly but authoritatively signals 'no’ with his head. It would be too risky; what if while falling he instinctively uses magic again - in front of the whole court? Merlin gives him a curious look but follows his cue anyway, thanksfully. There is still enough time to create an excuse before training; and they can still tell he fell even without witnesses anyway. It would have been a nice added touch at make-believe, but Gaius vouching for them should be enough on its own, right?

As they walk in silence back to Gaius’s quarters, Arthur feels Merlin’s eyes upon him, boring and questioning. So when they pass by his chambers, Arthur takes the opportunity for privacy. Once behind closed doors, Arthur leads them to the most private corner, as far from the door as possible. Then he takes a deep breath, and turns towards Merlin to explain… everything.

He hasn’t got the time to start though before Merlin hushes out, worry evident in his voice, pointing to Arthur’s side where a hint of metal is visible if you pay attention - and Merlin always pays attention, doesn’t he:

“Sire? Why are you wearing my chainmail?”

AN: It’s canon after all that Arthur doesn’t force Merlin to come along - he lets him leave before Camlann, right? But yes, this is just me giving some sense to the 'just let’s Merlin accompany us everywhere without any kind of protection’ unacceptable general policy. So. Merlin *has* some protection. We just don’t see it. Okay? And the few times he’s actually in armor on patrol, it’s because they need a decoy or something… Also, just so you know: Merlin of course thought that Arthur would probably think that he didn’t want to be seen in a chainmail because he didn’t want to look like a soldier in order not to seem a danger nor a target, but Merlin just couldn’t care: he HAD to be an unconspicuous nobody - it made it easier to protect Arthur with his magic if no one really paid attention to him. And to end with a cute note: whenever they ride out ? Arthur always checks that Merlin wears his chainmail - a fact Merlin can’t help but always secretly revel in…

IX. REVELATIONS (MERLIN POV)

Arthur looks anxious - which only makes Merlin worry more.

“I found out… why I was put into your body. I’m sorry, Merlin. I wear your chainmail because your body is in great danger; and it’s all because of me… again. ”

“Wha-”

Arthur cuts him with an imperative gesture from his hand, voice hushed - even though it echoes in Merlin’s ears like a shout:

“I have- I mean you have… Magic!”

Merlin’s breath catches; panick rising. Arthur knows! Arthur knows?

Arthur seems to read his struck expression though as simple denial.

“Yes, Merlin; you heard right! Magic! I saw water and wood floating above my head - floating, Merlin! - That’s the only way to explain it! But I have no idea how it gets triggered, I have no idea how to control any of it - I fell and it happened, I guess, instinctively? Now you understand why I couldn’t have us stage a fall… If people find out? *When* people find out? My Father will have me - YOU - beheaded!”

Merlin’s eyebrow furrow. He doesn’t understand. If Arthur knows he has magic? How come Arthur looks *contrite* instead of angry; afraid *for him* instead of afraid of him? Not that Merlin is complaining about the fact that Arthur obviously doesn’t wish to see him beheaded, of course; his evident worry is even heartwarming, in a way… but heartbreaking, too, as Merlin can’t help but feel that Arthur’s reaction must be induced by some reason that he doesn’t comprehend yet but that has little to do about him having magic at all…

Arthur then fully explains his theory about their attacker using his body to get to Camelot by erasing Arthur, then Uther, and marching against a Camelot lead by an unprepared servant playing Prince. Merlin is shocked, and shaken. Because indeed Arthur’s reaction isn’t about him having magic at all, but about Arthur feeling responsible for his body’s impending doom. But what hurts the most yet is the heavy guilt that settles upon Merlin’s chest - crushing, constricting, inescapable - as he realizes that in fact everything is his fault! Arthur’s thinking may be flawed on one account; but the rest of it makes sense, indeed. And so Merlin cannot deny that Arthur has been targeted and put into his own body because whoever did this actually knows that he has magic.

And so Merlin feels panick rising again, and even worse than before. It is already complicated enough for Merlin to hide his powers - and he has had practice at it since his birth. How could Arthur ever successfully hide them for long… And to think that *HE* might be the cause of Arthur’s death? It’s worse than anything; worse than everything. And it’s devastating. Merlin can’t hold Arthur’s gaze anymore.

Arthur probably thinks he is overwhelmed by the surprise of his body being a target though.

“And I’m sorry - again, Merlin - but I can’t go and hide at some random remote place until I’ve worked out how to subdue it at least, if not suppress it. There is no time. I can’t leave Camelot; not when it’s so endangered.”

Merlin feels like screaming: Arthur shouldn’t apologize; Arthur shouldn’t feel guilty - It’s all on him!

“It’s all right, Sire. I know you’re right: we have to stay here. After all, our best shot to end this mess is to find guidance in some books; and our best shot to find said books is staying here.” (Also, you bet Merlin isn’t willing to leave Camelot either because he is going to consult with Kilgarrah… Merlin had planned to go to the Great Dragon at the first occasion right when he had realized they had switched bodies; but he now can’t help but wish for the night to come even sooner.)

Arthur looks surprised by Merlin’s easy acceptance as he lets out: “I was going to point that out too?”

Arthur seems to hesitate an instant, taking a deep breath; but then, probably finally enticed by the fact that they still are on the same page apparently, he hushes out words that Merlin had never imagined he would ever hear, even in his wildest dreams.

“Now that’s settled… Do you have any idea that might help me keep it in check? I mean… Back in Ealdor? Did your friend Will maybe ever share something with you that we could use? Anything?”

Merlin’s mouth falls open; but nothing comes out of it. He realizes just how surreal it must have been for Arthur to utter those words. But Arthur looks decided, as always. He means it. And that’s when Merlin realizes Arthur is in fact ready to *learn*. Arthur still doesn’t trust magic, and definitely doesn’t trust his magic now that he has some; he only sees it as a treacherous condition. But he is willing to face it outright, instead of wishing or pretending it isn’t even there to start with. And Merlin realizes that this isn’t only proof of Arthur’s mighty heart; but that it also might actually be their saving too, with some luck?

And so Merlin just HAS to take a chance. Anyway, Arthur *needs* him; and how could Merlin ever let him down to start with… Besides, what if it made Arthur realize that magic isn’t only to be feared; that magic can be good, too, actually?

“Maybe you shouldn’t learn how to keep it check, but how to have it *work*?”

Arthur opens his mouth now, either in shock or to retort - or both; so Merlin hurries to push his point.

“Hear me out, please. Even when we do find an helpful book? The spell we’re under must be very powerful - I mean, have you ever heard or thought this could even be possible? - so we might still require magic too in order to perform whatever will be mentioned in the book? So yes, your new abilities are supposed to be our doom; but maybe we can turn them to our advantage? You have MAGIC, Arthur. If you can control it and use it - on your terms? Maybe that’s just what we need to solve our problem?”

Merlin waits. And Arthur isn’t taking the opportunity to repel his idea. Silence goes on; and still, Arthur isn’t refusing. If anything, he looks… thoughtful, even if doubtful. But there’s resolve, too; and maybe, even, a spark of hope? So Merlin just takes the final plunge.

“As you said… I might have… some basic notions about it? It’s worth a try, Arthur. What do you say?”

Merlin’s heart is pounding so hard it’s going to break his chest for sure, as they hold gazes for a long time - Merlin silently pleading for Arthur to just trust him. Then Arthur gives him a firm nod.

“I say this is probably folly but we have to try, indeed. So. You train me? And I train you.”

Merlin tilts his head, unsure about the second part.

“There are things I want to teach you, Merlin”, Arthur explains; pleads even. “In case we stay stuck in each others body no matter what we try; in case your body should- I know it’s a lot to ask, especially as I apparently keep making your life a hell just by existing? But will you please let me prepare you to take my place, if necessary?”

Merlin’s breath is knocked out of him. Arthur would trust *him* with *Camelot*? But Merlin cannot even contemplate it. Arthur cannot be gone; musn’t be gone; will not be gone. Merlin’s voice is fierce as it simply refutes the prospect.

“Sire, it won’t come to-”

Arthur lays a hand on his shoulder.

“It would mean a lot to me.”

And what can Merlin do then, but promise - and mean it:

“Anything, Arthur.”

The hand leaves his shoulder, but Arthur’s eyes stay fixed on him.

“Thank you, Merlin.”

And Merlin takes another oath - this one to himself. They’ll work it out. They’ll make it work. They will.

They both feel guilty for endangering the other more than they are worried about themselves *heavy sigh*

X. TRAINING (MERLIN POV)

Gaius is working on finishing Uther’s draught when ‘Arthur’ surprisingly comes in without knocking.

“Sire? Do you need-”

Merlin hasn’t prepared a speech on their way (how do you announce this anyway?) So he just blurts it out, as Arthur comes in after him and takes place at his side.

“We need your help, Gaius. Our bodies have been switched. (pointing to himself) Merlin. (pointing to his body) Arthur. We awoke like this this morning.”

Gaius looks stunned - of course. Then, for the shortest of times, he looks unconvinced; but this is after all Camelot, where strange things always happen, indeed - and not only Arthur would most probably have better things to do than playing along with Merlin’s pranks; but also Merlin wouldn’t have the heart to make *such* a prank to start with - not to him. So Gaius looks concerned now, gaze jumping with worry between Merlin and Arthur, holding Merlin’s eyes with a question in his eyes - and Merlin knows what’s worrying him.

Merlin can only give Gaius though a fragile smile to assure him that he is all right along with an apologetic look in return. He isn’t sure Arthur would want anyone else knowing about the magic too, so he will have to wait for a private occasion to explain everything to Gaius. For now, he just sticks to the plan.

“Arthur is expected to train soon, and we thought you could give us a way out of it. No one should be aware that Arthur isn’t Arthur until we’ve fixed this.”

Gaius doesn’t even hesitate.

“Of course (nodding to Merlin). I’ll go and tell you injured your sword arm (nodding to Arthur).”

Gaius goes out, mentioning coming back later to make Little Kathleen’s balm. Once the door closes, Arthur says he wonders what Merlin has in mind for 'training’. So Merlin decides he should help them both at once.

Merlin looks around for something basic, and his eyes light up when they fall on two bowls - not only basic but also potentially useful, if it works? He sets them on the table in front of Arthur: one stays empty, the other one get filled with water.

“Here. Try to make the water move into the other bowl.”

Arthur looks at the bowls, then at Merlin; incredulous.

“I’m not sure- I mean, even if I make this work, how am I supposed to put ourselves back into our bodies that way? How can I perform whatever must be performed if I am out of the performing body?”

“This is just a beginning, Sire. This is just a way to have you… feel your magic? Find it, and use it as you wish, when you wish. But if you need a valid reason, I promise this will be useful too, when you’ve mastered it.”

Arthur seems perplexed. Merlin confides, voice low as if sharing a secret: “We won’t have to disturb the fish anymore?”

Arthur is apparently too stressed out to even smile, sadly. But he gives Merlin a satisfied nod. “I’d better start trying then, huh.” A helpless sigh follows though. “Any hint about how to feel it to start with? Where to find it?”

Merlin hesitates. Not only because he wonders how much he can tell without Arthur realizing he knows too much, but also because he struggles about how to put into words what he has always simply felt. He has never had to search for it; it had always just been there. But maybe he can describe it by telling what he doesn’t feel, since he’s in Arthur’s body?

“Don’t search for 'where’. It’s not in one place; it’s everywhere. Not only in your body; literally everywhere - earth, air, water, fire. Like a… warm… tingling… flow? When you’ve found it, try to concentrate on it, focus on it, in order to direct it towards what you want - with your hands, your eyes, your voice; whatever works?”

Arthur’s brow has only deepened from the explanation, and Merlin can’t help but sigh:

“I’m sorry. It’s gibberish. I don’t know how to explain-”

“What you can’t know”, Arthur cuts him with a wave of his hand. “Of course. I have to find it on my own. Thank you for trying, at least?”

And so Arthur goes to sit at the table, facing the two bowls, while Merlin starts on the balm for Little Kathleen’s knee (hopefully for the last time, as her recovery seems to be going well, thanksfully) - both to feel useful and to give Arthur some kind of privacy. His moving around though must be disturbing, because Arthur switches place, turning his back to him. But it gives Merlin the freedom to check over his shoulders from time to time without risking to meet Arthur’s eyes.

This isn’t working though, Merlin can tell, by the time he’s done preparing Little Kathleen’s balm (he waits for Gaius to check if he got all doses and ingredients right though before finishing; he has only done it once) and a sleeping draught (for the guards guarding Kilgharra’s tunnel) (Gaius has had him prepare Morgana’s draught several times already, and has explained how to up the doses while keeping it safe): Arthur looks nothing but tensed, when he would need to be relaxed in order to feel… Trying too hard is nothing but counterproductive.

That’s when Merlin realizes he’s been going at it the wrong way. Arthur is not him. Arthur is *Arthur*. And when Arthur is at an impasse and needs a clear head? He trains. Activity helps him focus. Exhaustion helps him forget. To find his inner ground, Arthur must be physically busy; not sitting hunched over a table looking at two bowls.

Merlin eyes again his surroundings: spoons should work. Gaius has them in lots of size, both wood and metal. Merlin bundles them all in his tunic, and calls for Arthur as he passes in front of him.

“Let’s try something else. You can work on the water later on.”

Arthur’s eyes follow him questioningly up the stairs. Merlin sets his collection down, then holds a spoon up.

“Try to stop it from falling to the ground.”

Merlin let the spoon fall. It hits the ground, of course; but Arthur surely looks now interested by the new challenge. Merlin smiles, and lets another spoon fall.

After five rounds, Arthur gets up and gathers the spoons before handing them over to a crouching Merlin, instead of having Merlin going down, and up, and down, and up… A few rounds later still, Arthur picks up a spoon he has missed on his way and calls out for Merlin to catch it instead of walking back. Merlin misses it though, and it lands on his arm. And that’s when Merlin thinks his new idea can even be perfectioned.

He takes the offending spoon off the ground and holds it at the ready, eyeing Arthur, waiting for him to understand. And Arthur does, of course.

“Merlin? Are you threatening me with a spoon?”

Merlin grins wolfishly. He throws, and Arthur easily dodges, laughing.

“How long have you been waiting for such an opportunity?”

“Forever?” Merlin lies, before throwing another spoon, which Arthur blocks with an upraised arm.

Merlin can’t help but scowl: “You’re supposed to make the spoon divert its course; not block it or move out of its way.”

Arthur has actually the decency to look apologetic: “I know. Sorry. Reflexes.” Then he smirks. “But please, indulge yourself and do go on.”

And Merlin does. And it’s glorious somehow, how they are suddenly both intent and carefree, spoons clattering everywhere on both sides as Arthur now throws the spoons back to Merlin too. Hits land on both sides too, as they both throw quicker and harder.

At some point, the door opens and a spoon hits… Gaius.

“Sorry”, Merlin lets out, hurrying down to check he hasn’t hurt Gaius.

Gaius looks at the both of them with incomprehension, but Arthur explains even before Merlin has even opened his mouth.

“We’re actually working on something, Gaius; not destroying your chambers. (the slightest hesitation - but if Gaius is to be their ally then Arthur has decided he should know, well, everything, it seems) I have been jinxed too, on top of the body swap. It appears I have been given… magic; to be my doom - and well… Merlin’s body end.”

Gaius looks sort of disapprovingly to Merlin at the M word, but his gaze softens somehow, even though it turns outright anxious, as Arthur further explains his theory about their attacker’s plan.

“So, now you know it all, Gaius. And we also need your help for something more than giving me an excuse not to train… We need… information. I thought… You and Geoffrey go way back, right? Maybe you could persuade him to lend you a few special books?”

Gaius nods, eyeing Merlin.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Arthur nods back.

“In the meanwhile, I have to understand how it works, in order to prevent anyone finding it out until we’ve found a way to lift the spells?”

“Of course. Just let me take what’s necessary and I’ll leave you to it.”

Merlin then shows Gaius his previous work (safely tucked away in his room after the first round of spoons throwing - and yes, it also gives Merlin the opportunity to silently let Gaius know where his book is hidden, so that he will be able to retrieve it later on and present it to them as coming from Geoffrey or something). Gaius proudly tells he got everything right and gathers it all into a bowl.

“I can finish the balm in the kitchens. I’ll be back to bandage your arm though later on, Merlin; our Prince is supposed to be injured, and our King will want to check on his son right when he comes back from today’s hunt and hears about it.”

They start again where they had left, but nothing magical ever happens still, and after some time, Arthur exclaims in annoyance: “Maybe you should use knifes?”

And Merlin understands the logic; but Merlin just… can’t. He counters with an idea of his own.

“Maybe I should tie you up on a chair so that you can’t dodge them anymore?”

And Arthur gives a shrug… then goes to sit.

Merlin finds some rope and tie Arthur’s legs and chest to the chair. He hesitates, then tie only Arthur’s left hand behind the chair.

“In case it helps if you aim”, he explains.

Then Merlin is facing Arthur again. The spoons hit; one at a time. But Arthur glares at them - never at Merlin; and so Merlin goes on.

And then… (they’ve been going at it for so long that Merlin has stopped counting rounds) a spoon finally *stops*, mid-air, before simply falling vertically to the ground instead of keeping its course.

Merlin’s mouth falls open as Arthur keeps looking at his hand in wonder.

“Did you see-”

“Yes!” Merlin can’t help but shout happily.

Arthur meets his eyes, looking even more resolute than before.

“Again.”

Arthur doesn’t stop lots of spoons (yet, hopefully); but he regularly stops or redirects one.

And then, Arthur looks at his hand, and then at him, both in wonder.

“It *is* warm!”

And that’s definitely progress in the right direction, if Arthur has *felt* it.

The look they share is actually hopeful, for the first time since this began.

After some time, Merlin decides they should take a pause. Arthur still has to prepare him for tomorrow concil too, right?

So Merlin starts asking about what he should know for the coming concil right while untying Arthur’s legs.

“Will was definitely lucky to count you as a friend.”

Merlin’s eyes jump to Arthur’s in surprise; not only from the compliment, but also from the repeat mention of Will. Before today, Arthur had never mentioned Will, since they had left Ealdor.

Arthur doesn’t notice. Or - more probably - Arthur notices but goes on anyway; he is nothing but brave after all.

“I never had a friend, but I believe friends are supposed to help each other out, right? And well, you’re good at helping out, is all. And I know I have little to no right to talk about him; but I think you should know that I’m grateful, and that he has my respect, Merlin.”

Merlin is utterly speechless. Arthur has finally found, it seems, a way to shut him up. And to get him teary-eyed to boot. Merlin lowers his eyes to the ground.

“I believe he was a kind man. I mean- He must have been, of course - I don’t see you befriending someone cruel or-… But even taking only my own judgment into account? I suppose he could have probably done more harm than a whirlwind. But he didn’t. He wanted to defend, more than to attack; there is nothing malicious in that. It’s unfair his kindness caused his end though. Sometimes, maybe, it’s necessary to be the first to strike; even if you can never know how actually well-founded that decision then is; and you have to live with it.”

Merlin feels guilty, again. And angry. Does Arthur have to remind him that Will’s death is his fault? For all his magic? Merlin is indeed nothing but *useless*, indeed. He works on finishing to untie Arthur as quickly as he can.

Arthur must have read the inwards directed angry shake of his head for something else though, as he lets out a somewhat apologizing sigh.

“I realize I’m very biased, Merlin; because if he had used his powers in a harmful way? I would probably have been the first to accuse him of being a monster. (pause) But he hasn’t. And I haven’t searched for any magical powers - yet here I am.”

Another sigh; nothing but helpless this time. So Merlin *has* to look up. He has failed Will. He won’t fail again. He won’t fail Arthur. Arthur’s gaze is lost inward though.

“Sire”, Merlin pleads, hunting Arthur’s eyes then locking onto them.

Arthur fidgets; Merlin can’t help but note the oddity and rarity.

“I just- I realize this is the strangest thought to have while we are yet again under a sorcerer’s threat, but… Maybe not everything is always as black or white as I’ve been told all my life? Maybe not everyone with magic is actually evil? … Will? Me? … Again, maybe I’m only very biased. Because who knows then how many might have been wrongly punished- (a heavy sigh; wondering and remorseful this time, as Arthur shakes his head, apparently thinking about his Father’s deeds as his own - as he has allowed them to come to pass without opposition for so long…) But I *have* to believe that it’s possible to have magic without being corrupted by it. I mean… What if it sticks? Even after…”

“Arthur”, Merlin starts again as Arthur’s voice falters - even though Merlin still has no exact idea about what he wants to say; at least not in what order. Arthur’s genuine regrets and palpable fear are boring a hole right through his heart; just as Arthur’s words about Will and about magic (it is a step in the right direction; no matter how small) spread warmth through it too. Merlin’s possible soothing or grateful words in return all feel just tangled and messy and worthless and not enough and-

Arthur clears his throat, then softly exhales as he finally looks away: “I don’t really know what I’m trying to say, Merlin. Except… I’m glad you’re here?”

Maybe Merlin has conveyed what he couldn’t put into words through his eyes after all…

And then Arthur stands up, and his voice is back to his usual, assured tone.

“Now. One problem at a time, right? About the concil tomorrow…”

And Merlin listens, you bet.

So yep, yet another 'I’m glad you’re here’ (MY HEART). And spoons just had to be involved, indeed (I’m weak, blame 5.03)

XI. DESTINIES ARE TROUBLESOME THINGS (MERLIN POV)

Merlin can’t help but be on his guard. He has no idea, he realizes as he enters Kilgarrah’s cave after having successfully put to sleep the guards in front of it (after a shortened dinner with Uther and Morgana), about how the Great Dragon will react to a stranger’s presence in his lair.

But Merlin needs some guidance; and so, he calls out to him…

“Young warlock, what has happened to you?”

“You know it’s me?”

“Of course. Even though I am surprised indeed by your current appearance.”

“Arthur and I- Our bodies have been switched.”

The Great Dragon straightens up.

“So this is Uther’s heir’s body?”

“Yes. And I need - we need - help. Do you have any idea about how to reverse such a spell?”

“I do not have such knowledge. I can only tell you what you already know; that there is some very powerful magic at work here. (pause, tilting his head) But maybe you are not supposed to reverse it to start with.”

“Excuse me?”

“You are now *literally* two sides of a coin - both at once in the same body. Maybe this was the intent of the prophecy all along.”

(helpless, shocked sigh) “No.”

Merlin cannot believe his ears. But the idea is not only incongruous; it’s also outright enraging, and simply *impossible*.

“No”, Merlin repeats, firmly this time; a denial.

“You would throw away the opportunity to fulfill your destiny? You would carelessly discard the chance to bring forth the greatest time for Albion?”

Merlin doesn’t even flinch under the Dragon’s ire. *Arthur* is his destiny; and only Arthur. Albion’s welfare is in Arthur’s hands. And Arthur *will* be its greatest King; not Merlin. The notion only makes him sick. It’s not even about a possible guilt at cheating Arthur’s crown (which he doesn’t want to start with). It’s simply that Merlin wants - needs, and will not (and never) accept anything less - Arthur to be Arthur, intrinsically. Besides, Merlin knows the burden of pretending already; and he wouldn’t wish for anyone, and certainly not for Arthur, to have to shoulder it too. How can Kilgarrah not realise any of it?

“This just cannot be the way. It only feels wrong.”

“You should at least think about it, Merlin.”

“It is all decided. I cannot and will not abide to the belief that this masquerade could ever be our true fate. And if you don’t - can’t or won’t - help, we’ll look for a solution on our own - no matter how long it might take.”

They hold each other’s gaze; and Merlin won’t relent.

“I can only hope you will not come to regret your choice, young warlock”, Kilgarrah finally says as he flies away.

Merlin is still fuming as he enters Arthur’s chambers.

His fingers itch, longing to search through his spells book. He hasn’t had yet the opportunity - between being a Prince taking most of his day, and Arthur being at his side when he had been off duty. Unfortunately, it will have to wait until tomorrow - it would look suspicious if he went out in the night.

So. He should rest. After all, a clear mind will be necessary in the morning, both for council and for finding a way to break the spell they’re under, right?

Only looking at the bed though makes Merlin’s entrails twitch in disgust. This is wrong indeed; and will never feel otherwise. And no matter how comfortable that bed is, Merlin now knows (he might grow understanding of Arthur’s lack of will to leave it on some mornings from now on, huh), you bet he will never even contemplate sleeping in it.

Merlin makes his bed for the night on the floor, wondering if Arthur has been able to fall asleep yet.

Bear with me. The Dragonlord bond is an intrinsic link between souls, which is why it isn’t affected by the body swap. Whereas magic inhabits everything it’s in, and is therefore by nature anchored in physicallity. It explains too somehow why magic in general can be learned/found, but that the Dragonlord bond can only be inherited. Oh well, it makes sense in my head, at least…

Also :( I’ve really hurt myself with Kilgarrah’s last line :( Because of course Merlin *will* wonder about this, *for centuries*, later on (my heart:(). Anyone willing to hold me while I cry, pretty please?

XII. SOMETIMES, YOU PUZZLE ME (ARTHUR POV)

“Sire, you should rest.”

“Just a little bit longer, Gaius. Until the candles are out.”

“As you wish.”

A respectful bow; then Gaius is on his way to Merlin’s room, giving Arthur space and quiet - and only when the door closes does Arthur realize that he just kicked an old man out of his own bed?

Well, let it be worth it then, right! Arthur closes his eyes, breathing deeply, trying to connect with the magic inside. He actually feels it, now that he knows what to search for. He has no idea still though about how to have it work, apparently…

He can’t help but wonder briefly if Merlin has been able to fall asleep yet, before concentrating again on that damn water…

Arthur awakes, wincing, still at the table. Gaius has left bread and jam out for him, and he hastily eats before running out to help Merlin prepare (both physically and mentally) for concil. It is still earlier than he thought it was it seems, luckily. The kitcheners have just begun their work; Gaius does prefer to pick herbs in the early morning indeed. Arthur takes some bread and jam for Merlin, as little else is ready yet, and makes for his chambers.

When he gets in, Merlin is putting his clothes on. He is nearly finished; only the tunic and the coat are still laid out on the already made bed. Arthur approaches to help him with fastening the ties, and so notices the spread-out covers and pillows on the floor behind the bed.

“Merlin? Did you actually sleep on the floor?”

“Well, that bed of yours is way too soft”, Merlin retorts (even though Arthur DID see him getting out of said bed just the morning before: it hadn’t been too soft apparently, when Merlin hadn’t known it was Arthur’s, huh…), trying to cover his embarassment before walking out, heading for the stream. And Arthur has no choice but to follow, shaking his head while wondering if there would ever come a day when Merlin would stop astonish him…

After having left Merlin at the concil’s door, Arthur gets back to his bowls and water.

He has no progress to show though still when Merlin comes in and gives him a very detailed summary of what has been discussed. Arthur is thankful - even though he hasn’t doubted Merlin’s capacities (Merlin acting like an idiot or being clueless about etiquette doesn’t mean Merlin isn’t clever, indeed).

Then Merlin takes up the spoons, and helps Arthur train more actively about his magic again. They are both pleased to discover that Arthur is now able to divert about a third of the projectiles.

“Why am I getting better with the spoons and not making any progress with the water?”, Arthur wonders aloud.

“I am certain you will figure it out, Sire”, Merlin only has time to pledge as Gaius walks in, holding out a book and placing it on the table - which definitely ends the spoons training as Arthur and Merlin come to gather around it.

Gaius and Merlin seem to be waiting for his cue, so Arthur is the one to open the book, feeling both hopeful (this book might contains the answer to their predicament!) and worried (what if this book is simply full of evil?).

Arthur starts to read silently, both cautious about eventual passers-by overhearing and unwilling to invoke any probable further disaster on themselves by reading what could be spells aloud, a finger tracing along the opening line.

“Magic is potential, and possibilities. Its use is a choice, and a responsability”, Merlin whispers, echoing what Arthur is reading.

Arthur is stunned, and can’t help but blurt out in disbelief, turning his attention on Merlin:

“You know how to read?”

Merlin only shrugs.

“Sure I do. My mother taught me, along with the other kids from Ealdor. You know, the fact that it surprises you that a peasant can read probably says more about Camelot’s rampant illiteracy than about me?”

And Arthur can only admit it’s true:

“You’re right. We should probably ask Geoffrey to organize something about it.”

Then Arthur points at the book:

“But of course you may read along; it concerns you too. It might be safer though not to read aloud, you know…” (gesturing around, waving a hand)

“I can do that too”, Merlin assures.

So Arthur sits down on the bench, motioning for Merlin to do the same next to him. Gaius sits on the opposite bench - ready to give advice or help if needed; or ensuring they do not damage the book before it gets returned to the vaults?

They read further in silence, two pairs of eyes following the path of Arthur’s finger.

Arthur quickly realizes though that the first part of the book focuses on magical creatures, and skips through it - it might be handy, but it’s not what they need at the moment (he can’t refrain from briefly pausing though passing by the unicorns page)…

Then they reach the spells section, and Arthur turns tense.

And rightly.

When he understands what the first spell is about, he can’t help but shout out, pushing the book away:

“This is what Valiant did! How can we trust this book of tricks?” - this is nothing but evil indeed.

Of course Merlin just HAD to read that opening line aloud while in Arthur’s presence, huh…

XIII. PROGRESS (ALTERNATE MERLIN/ARTHUR POV)

“This is what Valiant did! How can we trust this book of tricks?”

There is fire in Arthur’s eyes - an anger at Valiant’s deeds that Merlin doesn’t wish to see grow blinding. Gaius gives Merlin a look, and Merlin understands that Gaius wants to be the one explaining - to protect him, surely. Merlin signals ‘no’; but Gaius is speaking anyway before Merlin has even opened his mouth.

“Sire, Valiant’s actions were definitely condemnable indeed; but the book is not to blame. It simply explains how to animate figures - it doesn’t tell *why* the spell should be used; that intent is entirely the responsability of the one using the spell. So yes, Valiant used such a spell to kill; but such a spell can be used to save or help too; can be useful and good.”

Arthur doesn’t seem convinced at all, judging by the growling tone in his voice:

“How could such a spell ever be used for good?”

Let’s say you need to animate snakes out of a shield at your will to confound an evil man and save a noble one; Merlin thinks but does not say, pleading Gaius to let him deal further with Arthur’s ire. Merlin has often pondered of course, even if with little success, about the best way to explain it all to Arthur. But he realizes, suddenly, that using Arthur’s own words and opinions might be the most helpful in that regard.

“Remember what you told me, Sire; about Will? So. Having magic is *not* having a weapon. It’s simply having *a tool*. You can use an axe to build a shelter or to break down a door - and even then, you might only be breaking that door to save blocked-in people from fire. You can use a shovel to plant an apple tree or to dig a grave - and even then, it might be out of respect and love, in another culture. The axe or the shovel have nothing to say about why they are used for. In the end, maybe, the only thing magic actually reveals is what’s truly in one’s heart.”

This approach works better, apparently. Palpable facts he experienced himself weigh more than rethorical theories in Arthur’s thoughts process. Arthur tilts his head, actually considering now, instead of refusing it all at once.

“So. This spell? Let’s say you badly injure yourself while alone and away, and you conjure a horse to carry you back home quickly enough to be saved? Let’s say a child is crying and you create a butterfly or something, to bring up a smile?”

“A butterfly, Merlin?”

Arthur looks incredulous but sounds, if anything, teasing - which Merlin interprets as a sign of progress, a smile growing on his face. He only shrugs though, playing along.

“What’s wrong with a butterfly?”

“Nothing, I guess, indeed. Let’s go on then.”

They read further for about an hour, Gaius preparing potions behind them. Arthur never shouts out again, but expectantly looks at Merlin on the few occasions he apparently feels like he might maybe be missing the whole picture. And Merlin just goes with it; the surprised yet somehow satisfied glow in Arthur’s eyes each time in some way worth the risk of possibly divulging too much…

Until dinner time comes, and Merlin has to go. He takes his leave, telling Arthur he should read on. Arthur’s answer leaves him breathless.

“I’d probably see things only one way on my own; who knows what I’ll miss… I’d rather bring the book to my chambers while you eat, and you can read further later. Besides, I should work on my water, you know… Be ready for it, in case you find something.”

Merlin can only nod, speechless from Arthur’s obvious trust.

As he opens the door, Arthur surprises him yet again, talking to his back: “And just so you know, I wouldn’t put you in the stocks for sleeping in my bed while you’re, well, me. What would the guards think if they saw me sleeping on the ground? ”

The tone is more gentle than gloating, and Merlin feels warmed up as he realizes Arthur is being simply honest. It doesn’t change his view on the matter though.

“I told you, Sire; I do not find your bed comfortable to start with.”

He doesn’t dare to look at Arthur as he walks out.

Gaius has proposed to bring the book to his chambers. He said he had to bring Morgana her sleeping draught anyway; but Arthur couldn’t help but sense that there was more to it - maybe he’d rather not have 'Merlin’ seen with such a book, maybe Geoffrey has made him sworn an oath to never let it out of his sight… Anyway, Arthur doesn’t have it in his heart to deny Gaius the demand.

Once alone, Arthur sits again in front of his two bowls. He closes his eyes, reaching *inside*.

It’s a tool. He tells himself when he senses the flow. Not a weapon.

There had been something in the way Merlin had talked. It had sometimes felt more like mentioning actual events than thinking aloud (Had Will ever performed any of the spells they read about?); especially - even though surprisingly - about…

It’s harmless. Merlin says it can be used to make butterflies.

Arthur takes a deep breath; focuses - visualizing in his head what he wishes to achieve.

When Arthur opens his eyes, the water has switched bowl.

Arthur blinks.

Then a loud “Yes” echoes in the room.

Arthur makes several times the water switch from bowl; then the books on the shelves from order (size, alphabetical, themes (as it was originally)) - he doesn’t dare mess with Gaius’s ingredients though, of course. At some point, he eyes the chamberpot and tests it too, like Merlin had mentioned they could once Arthur would have gotten how to. And indeed, it works too! Arthur can’t help but feel proud, trying to imagine the look on Merlin’s face come morning…

Then Arthur realizes maybe they do not have to be under the spell to start with any longer! What if he can just wish it away? Sadly, though, it doesn’t work; no matter how much nor how hard Arthur tries. Feeling a bit defeated now, even though he knows he definitely booked progress, Arthur decides he should go to sleep. With any luck, he might need all his energy tomorrow, if tonight turns out to be as fortunate for Merlin as it has been to him…

Gaius hasn’t come back yet - he probably stayed with Merlin to study the book; after all, as Court Physician, no one would question how long he stayed by his injured Prince… Arthur opens the door to Merlin’s bedroom - he doesn’t intend to keep Gaius out of his own bed tonight too…

As soon as possible, Merlin excuses himself from Uther’s and Morgana’s company to get to his book.

Since Gaius has given it to him, he hasn’t really had time to study it - mostly, he’s called forth through his magic the necessary spell or information when he needed any. He hopes though that the book will help them again, as it has in the past, and that he will find something useful in the over two thirds of the spells section he hasn’t read yet…

It’s late into the night when Merlin’s heart skip a beat. A spell-breaking spell? This might work, right! After all, one doesn’t have to reverse a spell to have it undone! Merlin rereads the pages again, and wishes the morning to hurry in order to show his finding to Arthur and Gaius.

Arthur saw magic as a weapon, of course. Which was sort of getting in the way of having his magic work for more than blocking the spoons attacks, because he felt still somehow that he *shouldn’t* use it, no matter the need to use it to fix their problem. But now that Merlin has had him understand, at least for a while, that it isn’t by definition a weapon, Arthur somehow feels like it is all right to use it. Which is why it works this time? It makes sense in my head, at least?

And imo Merlin wound’t link magic to a weapon both because he wants to unmake that precise link existing already in Arthur’s mind; but mostly because, well, he doesn’t see it that way - HE USES IT TO MAKE BUTTERFLIES, RIGHT (and I love him for it, HUGE sigh…)

#merlin #merthur #bbc merlin #bbcmerlin #merthur fic #merlin fic #the body swap #the once and future fic #text post #fic #fanfic #my own two spells

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