Full summary: "Merlin has more than one secret to keep, not just that he's magic - he's a hermaphrodite." Arthur/Merlin SLASH. Hermaphrodite fic.
Author's note (2012-08-08):I've never felt so nervous presenting a fic before ... Bear with me please and read this whole note! This is based on an old prompt which at the time hasn't been filled (the same as the summary above). Of course I'm tweaking and twisting this plot as I see fit, but I'll (try to) keep to the original idea.
For a moment, I thought of using the world of omegas, alphas and betas instead (maybe you guys have heard of this before, but in short, it's like different genders; betas are the "normal people", alphas are dominant and omegas usually submissive and can have children whether they're male or female). But for that idea to work, then I had to make all characters either omega, alpha or beta and it a steady part of society. That would sort of ruin the whole point of Merlin having to keep it secret…so I opted for the original prompt in the end.
This is a fictional story so please don't take any of my statements within this piece as solid fact. I've looked the subject of hermaphrodites up a bit and realized that it's such a difficult thing to write, and that the characteristics I've applied to Merlin in this case won't be true to what biology says - apparently though there are cases of 'true hermaphrodites' there's been no known case where both the male and female organs have functioned fully, like they should have in an only male/only female person. (But here they will.) I'm not a biologist and had some difficulty understanding some of those articles I read on this subject, so all errors in this fic belong to me. I'd gladly accept any helpful facts if you've got them…but remember it's fiction. You could say I'm tackling this from a more mythical point of view; think of the original legend of Hermaphroditus (and that magic makes anything possible). I really, really hope the themes in this fic won't upset anyone, but if anything here thus far has made you uncomfortable, please refrain from reading any further!
The fic focuses on other things as well though, like destiny and dragons and dollopheads and other Merlinish issues. Merlin still has magic and the setting is canon Camelot. This will be Merlin/Arthur SLASH in time (and maybe other pairings, both two- and one-sided, but I am not that big a fan of Arthur/Gwen so we'll see how that front develops). It may include more angst that first intended.
It will have chapter warnings so you know what you're dealing with. Also, I've made Merlin younger than in the series ... I think. We're not exactly given his age by the producers … I guess he's supposed to be before his twenties in 'The Dragon's Call', but they keep calling him 'young boy' in the intros all up till series 4 (spoiler alert!) like he's – well, young. So I've made him 17 years old at the start of this story. When thinking about it, it doesn't seem that illogical.
I'll try my best at keeping this fic alive and post the sequel as well but you might know I'm not very good at that so nag and yell at me and remind me to stop lazing about and update! Of course reviews are always welcome but I'll update regardless – their regularity will depend on how fast I get my chapters written, not on the amount of reviews I get, so I won't hold chapters "hostage".
Warning: Adult content will occur - I can't say just how much yet. It won't be extremely graphic but if there's anything in a chapter, I'll warn you beforehand. Contains slash; it also deals with hiding periods and other things due to Merlin's gender; some angst. It has character deaths but mainly canon deaths that are in the series originally. If anything of the mentioned squicks you, please press the back button now. Rated M.
... I haven't scared everyone off have I...?
()()()
I Am the Embers of Your Fire - You Are the Breaking of My Dawn
Prologue
()()()
Merlin has always known that he's different.
His mother had always known as well, even if she doesn't speak of it. It's the fear, Merlin tells himself, the fear of being discovered - the fear of being seen or heard and tossed out of the village - but when his mother glances at him sometimes he wishes terribly much that it wasn't so. That he was normal and not like this.
It's terrifying, but at the same time natural and easy as breathing, the power humming there beneath his skin, thrumming through his veins. At first he couldn't name it and as an infant he didn't care for labels anyway. It didn't matter why - it was wonderful and never uncomfortable or wrong. It just was. Labels were not necessary. All he knew was that this energy, alive and full of so much emotion, this … thing … was rooted in his core and he couldn't live without it.
No one else had it. He'd asked his mother once, why she never used it, the web of energy around them, when it made things so much simpler - she'd just shook her head. The words were always the same: It's a secret, Merlin and You must never let anyone know.
You must never let anyone know.
He can remember each time he's used it, magic magic magic echoing in his head, flowing though his veins, in time with his heartbeat - although the first times are fuzzy and vague; the memories of a being small child weakening as more recent, more important things fill the mind.
That time when he was four, eager to show what he could do, test the boundaries of his powers: her shocked, upset, saddened expression that sunny day in June when Hunith said she needed to go to the well, despite her tired feet and aching back. Merlin only wanted to help. He only ever wanted to help but his mother had been first shocked, trembling to the core, then angry, staring at the suddenly water-filled pail in her son's hands. Disbelieving. And Merlin didn't understand – he'd only wanted to help her get water. He'd only wanted to help.
She'd yelled and cried and, finally, embraced him. A confusing embrace, with the teary smiles and his mother's berating, "Never do something like that again!" - so much worry, so much grief. Her eyes were haunted, he could clearly remember: the dripping shades of her voice fixing him on the spot. "I'm sorry mother," he'd apologized, again and again and again; "I'm sorry."
Over the next passing weeks, there grew an unspoken rule sharper than any blade, a boundary he fingered at but never fully crossed: Never do something like that again.
But the power swirling in his blood cannot be ignored. It doesn't know any rules or measures, only the will of doing something for the better and setting free. From time to time he sneaks out to a glade in the wood a few miles from the village and, with eyes wide with childish innocence and amazement, explores what his gift can do. Lightning and rain and sunshine spring from his fingertips and flowers and grass sprout from the ground at his will and he's so deliriously happy every time. He can letting a bird fly down to land in his open palm, stroke its little head, and the other animals do not seem that afraid of him even if sudden noise can startle them and make them run away.
Sometimes, his friend Will follows with him too and then Merlin doesn't use his magic. His mother would be so angry. It doesn't matter though, Will is happy with him and he's happy with Will. They roll around on the mossy ground laughing or play hide and seek. And when he's alone he runs through a green meadow barefoot, arms spread out wondering if he one day could take a leap and fly, fly away someplace better, look down on the village and forest; wondering how it'd look from up there - and other tiny moments like that when he tastes freedom.
Sometimes, he wonders what's beyond the woods, but he's heard stories of wolves and giant bears and doesn't dare go further than the friendly open glade.
()()()
He doesn't realize why his mother always worries until two years later, under a heavily clouded sky.
A six year old Merlin is playing with Will just outside his mother's cottage – the other boy, one and a half years older, is one of the few who actually likes being with Merlin, even if he's mean sometimes, calling him names and pushing him into the mud and pulling at his ears. But he's kind as well and he'd hit the boy who'd bullied Merlin for his large comical ears (which was how they met) square on the jaw. He's somehow appointed himself Merlin's protective brother, thus he's the only one allowed to pick on Merlin.
The day is warm, just at the end of a good harvest and then the riders come into the village, hoof beats dull thuds on the muddy path. Will picks up the ball the boys are passing between them, poking Merlin's shoulder and pointing; "Look, there're horses over there. With big men on them."
Merlin glances over where his friend is pointing. Yes, they are big men and their faces look scary, a grave expression on each one like they hadn't smiled in years. Chainmail and armour and spears are glinting in the sunlight: Merlin had never seen anyone wear metal on their bodies before, and it's kind of fascinating, albeit scary too and when the men looks around, Merlin twitches, wanting to hide somewhere. He doesn't want to be trapped by their gazes. One of the men barks at the others and dismounts, the large horse snorting impatiently and Merlin stares transfixed, like rooted to the ground, a sudden realization slamming into his belly. This, whatever it is, he's witnessing something that he doesn't want to see, but he cannot understand why or what it is.
Will, older and maybe knowing things than Merlin doesn't, tugs at his sleeve. "C'mon, let's go someplace else."
But Merlin doesn't move. "What's going on?" he whispers in a small voice, wanting to shut his eyes and cover his ears, but too petrified to do so when the armed men comes back dragging an old woman with them. Merlin recognized her. Annie. Annie is nice, she'd helped him up two days ago and patched up his scraped knees and shared bread with him; why are the men taking her away? Why are they glaring at her, their eyes so dark and sinister and their grip so tight? – The woman is wailing, scared – Merlin feels a tremor in his bones and steps forward slightly - why are they taking her away?
Usually, Will is always brave and knew everything but when Merlin whispers there questions frantically, suddenly clinging to his friend, Will has no answers, at least he can't form words the other boy would understand. "Merlin. Let's…let's go." He doesn't say it, but the scene is frightening for him too and unlike Merlin, he's heard about stuff like this: grown up stuff, about kings and laws and magic, about fires and secrecy and staying behind locked doors.
"C'mon," he says again, something hidden in the layers of his voice, not quite concealing the fact that he knows. "Let's go. We shouldn't …"
"What's going to happen to her?" Merlin asks, wide-eyed, staring at the men and the woman they're pinning down, and gasping as one of the men hits her sharply and there's a cry of pain. The men yell. Angry, taunting words. "Witch!" they cry, a word Merlin's heard whispered by the fire but never spoken aloud before, the meaning is somewhat foreign.
Merlin is held back by immovable hands on his wrist, keeping from rushing up to the scene, to do something. "Will? What's going on? Why're they taking her away?"
There is no reply. Hunith appears that moment, pulling him into a hug and for some inexplicable reason, Merlin had to swallow a sob, a feeling hitting his gut and suddenly, he just knows he won't see Annie come back to Ealdor. That she'll never pat his head after a clumsy tumble again, or offer him and the other village children stories about dragons and princes during the late Samhain festival evenings right before they were ushered to bed, or any of those other little moments. She'll never – never. Because of those men. Why are they taking her away?
"Merlin," his mother's soft voice makes its way through the confusion of his heart.
Merlin asks again, "Why are they taking her away?"
"It matters not now, my child," Hunith murmurs, something bitter on her tongue. Merlin's eyes flickers over to her: posing so many doubts. "Come now, Merlin."
And she leads him home, away from the woman's frightened screaming dying in the distance, fading into nothingness and he keeps glancing over his shoulder for a last glimpse.
Years later, Merlin clearly remembers looking back, hands clenched into small fists, the ground darkened and the sky smelling of burned flesh.
He'll never forget.
Never forget.
()()()
There are other things, too, setting him apart.
He started noticing early, it was little things; how he felt, something twisting in his gut sometimes at Will's sharper taunts or his mother's glances; his body, there was something off with it. Something about it wasn't quite … wasn't quite like the other boys'. He knew all along somehow that he was different – but he couldn't put his finger on it, couldn't place it correctly. For a long time he didn't delve too much into such thoughts, if he could help them. He just wanted to stay safe and happy and at peace, without asking questions that might disrupt that.
He's rather certain his mother knows, but he doesn't ask fearing the answer and she doesn't speak of it.
It's not until later, when he's twelve years old, that he finds out what it is.
It's in the middle of July when the day is humid and warm, trembling beneath the weight of summer. The sun is halfway down the sky and crickets are singing in the tall thick grass. It happens with Will, again, but it's different in the sense that Will isn't aware - not like the other grown up stuff, with old Annie. He has no idea. Which might be just as well. Merlin doesn't know if he can tell him, how to tell him, if he ever can.
They are down by the stream just outside the village and it takes a lot of coaxing from Will to get him into the water. He doesn't really want to bathe, not today, with anyone watching him.
"C'mon! You're no fun," Will says impatiently stomping a foot, because splashing around by himself isn't that fun. "You're not scared, are you?" He grins, showing off a newly missing tooth: "Ha! Merlin's scared of the water, Merlin's scared of the water!"
"No, I'm not," Merlin protests, because he isn't. It's just, with Will there, when he's not alone, it's different somehow; he's starting to grow out of the stage of being able to take off his shirt when it's warm outside and run around laughing. He's aware of eyes on him in a way he's not been before. But he takes off his shoes and his clothes and wades into the chilly water, as quickly as possible – Will continues to laugh and taunt in a sing-song voice to his heart's content.
The boy doesn't quiet until Merlin's beside him, waist-deep in the water and Merlin sinks down trying to cover himself, his whole body with threads of water. When seeing his friend's unwillingness to swim and splash around, Will scowls, displeased – "You really are no fun," he says, pouting. "What's up with you?"
"I don't know," Merlin mumbles clenching his stomach and he feels suddenly ill, a whooshing through his body, he just wants to crawl up the shore again and hide someplace soft and dark, but his stomach aches and he feels warm, almost feverish but not quite; it's weird, he can't explain it. He just. He has to get away. "I, I don't feel so good."
Will frowns at him. "Eh, you sick?"
"'Dunno."
His stomach hurts. It's a new kind of pain he's never had before, throbbing and persistant and he feels warm, not quite feverish but almost, and for a moment his heart speeds up, his breathing short - Why does it hurt?
"I – I don't," Merlin hesitates, glancing down, feeling vulnerable and frail. He got a sudden urge to just turn and run and fling himself in his mother's arms, which was odd, he's fought every urge like that since he was nine and Will called him a weakling, but now he can't fight it. He starts moving out of the water barely feeling his own feet carrying him away.
"Muurlin," Will grumbles, splashing water after his friend.
Merlin manages to slip his clothes on and then becomes distinctively aware of something, warm and red between his thighs and he panics, stumbling into a run, completely ignoring Will's taunts.
()()()
"Child," Hunith breathes.
"What is it, mother? What's wrong with me?" Merlin asks hiccoughing again, trying to hide a sniffle behind his sleeve but it doesn't quite work. He's spent the last hour babbling and clinging to his mother's arms. "Mother?"
Hunith has some knowledge in healing, the closest to a physician the village has, but Merlin knows the expression on her face. It's like when she was treating that old man who'd lost his left eye or that woman with the fever last week, remembering with a chill the freshly dug grave, two of many she's not had enough skill to heal and that kind of expression is frightening for Merlin to see. It's bad, is all he can think, it's really bad.
"Mother? Mother, I'm scared."
Abruptly the woman stands, leaving Merlin sitting on the bench confused, hands clenched around his stomach.
"Am I gonna … " He suddenly thinks of the old woman, of the Witch, of Annie and of blood on the ground, his chest clenching around his small heart and lungs, almost suffocating him; hot tears well up in his eyes. "Am I gonna die, mother?"
"No … no, sweetheart. You're not going to."
She takes his hand and looks him in the eye, and in words Merlin doesn't quite understand, explains that he's different from other boys, not like them. That his body isn't like theirs.
He knows that, he says, "I've always known that, always felt it."
Hunith shakes her head, "It's more than that."
There's a murmur of This must be kept a secret (people would suspect magic).
She'll help him, she promises, always be a support, but it must be kept a secret between just the two of them, and she talks about birds and bees as well - Merlin can't quite understand the details. A small part of him is quietly thrilled at this new discovery of uniqueness, but a larger part of him just wants it to go away forever so he can be normal, like Will and Jonathan and all of the other boys in the village.
And she tells him that first rule he was taught when as a child when he learned how to speak, words etched underneath his skin:
You must not let anyone know.
()()()
Seventeen years old, Merlin has adapted to his situation better; though he's still uncomfortable about it. Hunith is the only one who knows. He didn't tell Will. Can't tell him. Doesn't dare to.
When meeting the boy two days after the incident at the stream, he'd mumbled some white lie about tummy aches and Will had scoffed and called him a girl – and then things fell back to usual, the way they'd used to be.
Only now, taunts like that hurt, stinging in his chest and he feels ashamed, like someone's covered him with permanent ink markings deep in the flesh to set him apart forever – it feels like everybody stares even though they aren't. He shouldn't be like this. It's not … it's not natural. He knows, because even if his mother doesn't talk loudly about it, he sees it in her glances and hears it in her hesitation. Sees in her worn hands cradling his own whenever he asks about it, wanting to know: Why am I like this?
He knows he'll never be quite like the other village boys. Never normal, for always half a step outside the door and furthest from the hearth. Such thoughts are frightening and hurtful and cruel when you're a lone boy trying to grow up and find your place in the world. Though his mother never fully understands how he feels, she's supportive.
When the cycle comes and he wakes up pained in the mornings wanting to crawl up into a tight ball and never go outside again, she holds his hand comfortingly and makes some hot tea and helps concealing the blood. When he goes through a period of breaking down in tears one week in the middle of autumn, crisp leaves rustling underneath his feet, she lets him cry on her shoulder, embracing him and promising, promising It'll be all right, it'll be all right.
It's never completely all right, but – it's bearable.
After that incident in the river, his magic has been growing. Perhaps not on its own, but out of control: slowly spinning out of his hands. He can't always be aware of what it does. Its hum is so near and comfortable; it's what he relies on, what makes him feel safe.
(After going to bed crying, he often walks out of the house next morning to find the soil soft with fresh rain.)
()()()
The winter day when Merlin lets Will get to know about his magic, finally admitting it because he no longer wants to lie, the world around him crumbles, the thin shells he's built for years falling apart between them.
Will is shocked – not scared – and then fascinated – not cruel – and calls him an utter idiot for hiding something like this and finally, Will accepts, continuing to treat him like always and calling him names because of his long, pale branch-like limbs and stubbornly defending him from bullies. And in moments of privacy Will asks him to do little magic, swirls of gold and red and green in his palm. Merlin conjures up light and butterflies out of nothing, and he is happy.
Once during one of the evenings they're in their own secret little hideout, the glade with the old oak, Will even says, "It's beautiful, Merlin," and Merlin's chest warms pleasantly, something like pride in his fingertips, and he doesn't mind Will asking questions about the magic after that. It's beautiful, Merlin creeps into his half-dreams and soothes him during cold nights he cannot find any rest - It's beautiful, Merlin - and he wonders if Will would react just as well if he was told Merlin's other secret.
(He has these silly little dreams of Will holding him just as closely as his magic, smiling and murmuring, "You're beautiful, Merlin." But it's just a dream and nothing more, and it's gone by the morning.)
Hunith doesn't take it well, when finding he's spilled his first major secret. She fears for him, so badly, he can practically see it like a shadowed sheet wrapped around her. Five weeks after the revelation, his mother orders him to pack. Merlin does so with tears in his eyes.
"You want me to just leave everything behind?" he asks, despaired, by the kitchen table, fisting one of the shirts he's folding, tightly, knuckles white. Ealdor is his home, it's all he's ever known. Out there – there's nothing he knows, nothing that's safe and homely and no one whom he can go to and tell of his worries, his pains, share his dreams and secrets with. There'll be no one and he might wander lonely for weeks, months, no place to go.
"Gaius will welcome you," Hunith says certain and steady. "You'll find another home there."
"I don't want to find another home," Merlin says hotly.
"I know, my child. But your place isn't here. You have to explore the world. I am certain that you will find a place where you will be welcomed and cherished for what you truly are."
The air outside the door is cold with autumn wind and riding upon it, as he turns around for a final time, Merlin hears the echo of his mother's voice: You'll find your destiny.