Fire
The fires of grief had come to stalk Emrys once more.
It would strike suddenly, like a blast of a dragon; leaving his heart stunned and torn, his landscape scorched and smoldering, breathless. He became adept at holding it in, turning his heart from the abyss, and wrenching himself back into the moment before him. Deep in his heart, in his still smouldering ruin of a heart, he buried it, until the pain was no more than a ghost, an echo of a cry. It would haunt his nights later; for grief, like true love, cannot be denied.
It was the sudden ferocity of these bouts of grief that shook Merlin to his core. In those first few days and weeks after Arthur's 's death, the pain had been unrelenting, blinding in it's intensity. He had died that day as well, though his heart did not grow silent along with Arthur's. Even now he did not truly understand what he had become in that eternal moment. But as the days turned to weeks, the months to years, the years to centuries, the pain had not lessened but changed in a subtle, sad way. What was unbearable, became inescapeable: it became his life.
It was easy to say that in losing Arthur, Merlin had lost a piece of himself. Those who knew and loved Merlin in his youth, knew that the truth was much darker and more profound than those words could convey. Something essential to his being was gone and no amount of time could heal the emptiness. The warlock had disappeared after Arthur's death; half mad with grief he had been glimpsed in the forests near Camelot. It was only weeks later, Percival and Leon had found him, unresponsive, dehydrated and half-starved in the charcoaler's hut. As soon as he recovered his strength, he had left again, much to Gaius' and all of Camelot's dismay. There was no hiding the loss that was now etched into a deep stillness in his eyes. There was a silence in his face that seemed to be almost regal, to those who did not know him. But to those who had known Merlin when he had served Arthur, it was the stoic mask of a singular friend. The change was in a certain random, bitter smile that touched his face at the oddest of times. It was in the inhaled breath that held back a retort to a prat whose voice echoed only in his heart. The change was in his piercing glance that seemed to see more clearly than ever, the suffering of the world. It was in a sudden quiet movement that clenched Merlin tighter than a fist, until he could work through the moment. But there were none now, who had known him in those long ago days, and there were none now who was familiar with any of these subtle signs, for he was alone.
For Merlin, the change was more elemental and difficult to explain. He found only weak metaphors to describe what had happened. When Arthur died everything in his life changed, but everyone, even Camelot, hummed on with an impossible normalcy, he could not understand. It was as if all the color had leached suddenly from his life, leaving everything around him intrinsicly the same, but changed forever into terrible shades of grey. In the grim, flat light of this new reality, it was as if his magic flared to his will but the world no longer recognized it's power. Merlin was rendered useless, his words incomprehensible. It was as if he could think and speak, just as before, but no one truly understood his words and no one noticed, not even Gaius. Merlin went on in his new life,because all life, even this bleak, changed life, was precious. There was no other choice that would have satisfied Arthur. The years passed into ash, the centuries into embers. Merlin knew his grief in the passage of the seasons, and in the endless circle of brilliant, torturous memories of a time when hope and lies were his daily bread.
So these repeated attacks of immediate, ferocious despair, alarmed Merlin more than he could admit. He felt as if his heart was bleeding, just as it had on that terrible day, now so long ago. How could it hurt like this after so many years? But then again, how could it not? He was at a loss to explain his feelings.
After days of dogged repression, the lurking sorrow had overpowered him in the night. When he moved in his convulsive sadness, unable to deny the pain any longer, he knew where he had to go. Just as he had been driven down into the the darkness beneath Camelot by the call of the dragon and his own birthright, so he was drawn to the ruins of the place that had driven him to his endless fate. Only the white ruins of the towers of Camelot could understand his pain. Only there would the sweet ghosts of his youth offer him the balm of their presence.
Wildflowers grew in the ruined courtyard. The moon was low in the western sky and the night fading as Merlin walked by memory through the ruins of the place where it had all begun. He climbed an outcropping of stone that led to the spot where once wooden doors had stood, at the opening of Camelot's throne room. The stones were familar beneath his hands and his feet. He smiled as he recalled mopping these very stones day after day, when Arthur had seen fit to punish him. His knees ached to this day. Here he had lived, here was his home. It was a relief to find this touchstone, this eye in the storm of fire that consumed his heart. It was a blessing to breathe. Here in the silent company of this place he could let go the pain that had burdened him.
The pre-dawn air was cold and damp, the sky clear, the stars brilliant. Pale, thin clouds scudded across the horizon. Merlin exhaled slowly, taking in the blessed quiet of the the silent stones. He breathed in the last of the night, and slowly, carefully, relaxed his hold on his heart. Immediately, his aching sorrow rose like a spear of fire, exploding in his chest, choking him. The terrible loop of memories had begun. Now he had no choice but to watch the nightmare of his memory until the horrific end, until Arthur thanked him.
Resigned and without shame, Merlin fell to his knees and his tears burned. Sparking gold as they touched the earth, they fell. The magic flowed through the dark land, nourishing the soil, drawing energy up into the night through the green fuse of the plants. Air moved over the land, fragrant with magic, whipping quickly into a maelstrom of wind surrounding the lone figure huddled on the white stones. The golden shimmer of power surged like fire, alive and purposeful, licking at the edges of reality as the warlock loosed his agony into the ground, into the stones that had been his home.
Merlin heaved weakly, his face still wet with tears, his throat on fire, his heart transfixed. The palest of dawns was creeping along the horizon. The tender color grew bright, spiraling into sorcerous gold and impossible lavenders. The birds were singing wildly, the undisciplined song rising like a tide of hope as the darkness faded and the morning began. Merlin's breath caught in his throat. There was magic here. It was tenuous but momentous, familiar in a way he hardly dared to remember. The colors shot into the sky. Pale rays of light shot out from the clouds, limned in golden light. It was as if the fragile dawn was a pathway between the worlds, a veil of light between the living and the dead, between despair and hope. He felt as if, lost in the mounting colors, a path was opening what had long been closed, raising what was broken and left in the ashes. Could this be the moment,he asked himself. His heart raged wildly in his chest.
Suddenly Merlin understood. The pain, the terrible agonizing sense of loss was his own heart trying to speak to him. Now he saw the pain was the dark side of his connection to Arthur, the binding that held their destiny together, even now. Along with his realization, he let the sorrow fill him, welcoming the pain and even the choking tears. For there in the darkness, was the terrible promise that drove their fate, the promise he hardly dared to remember. The early sun blazed on Merlin's face, gilding his hair and eyes brighter than gold. He closed his eyes, flooded with memories, and opened them to a new day.
"Hello, old friend," said Arthur softly, and Merlin smiled. There was no need for words, for now his friend stood beside him. Merlin's heart blazed up in wonder; he suddenly knew that his hands directed the power of his magic, his words had meaning, and Arthur's eyes were blue, a color so brilliant it filled Merlin with unreasoning hope. Against all logic, in spite of anger and lonliness and unendurable memories, the time had come. There in the veil of light, in the momentary magical light of dawn, they stood together once more, side by side, courage and magic, king and servant, friends and brothers. It was enough.
Surely, it was enough.
A/N: "He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep, pain that cannot forget, falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God." Aesychlus
Thank you all, who have read and/or commented on this, my first fan fiction for Merlin. I am more grateful than you know for your support and encouragement.