So I did that thing where I opened Word to work on Paranoia, and ended up writing a one shot instead. *shifty* I promise that Paranoia will get ALL of my attention for the next couple of days, and there will definitely be one - if not two - chapters heading your way in the VERY near future (maybe even later this evening, who knows?).
Anyway, this is much darker than my previous (and somewhat loopy) one shot, and probably a little depressing, so be ye warned. It's my first attempt at a future 'reunion' story - and probably fits quite well as an extension to the ending of my first Merlin multi-chapter fic, now that I think about it. Hopefully it's full of those lovely feels that I love so much, but I never really know if my stories will come across as I intend them to, so... *crosses fingers*
I don't own Merlin. Which is grossly unfair, as far as I'm concerned.
It often occurred to Merlin that footsteps were so much more than the placing of one foot in front of another. The somewhat mundane action of walking was something that not many people pondered upon, he suspected, but it was something that played on his mind almost every day.
Some days – those ordinary days when nothing exciting happened, and life was almost normal – he would think no more of his feet than any other person would. They were just feet, after all. But other days, Merlin would find himself looking at them, and he would question the direction they were taking him.
The first time he'd caught himself thinking of his feet in terms of almost being a separate being, was when he'd stepped into Camelot. He'd been young, innocent, and so full of hope that there had been a spring to his step that would have rivalled even the most excited of children. The sights and sounds of the city had overwhelmed his country sensibilities, and he'd been unable to hold back his exuberance at the thought of living his life in such a colourful place.
And then his footsteps had faltered at the sight of a man being put to death; his feet had clung to the floor beneath them, trying to anchor themselves to something that was solid, for his world had suddenly begun to shake, and he'd felt like he was going to topple over from the force of it.
His feet had almost turned direction then, wanting to carry him all the way back to Ealdor – to safety – but something had held them in place. Something pulled at them, gently coaxing them to continue on their current path.
And so his footsteps had taken him further into Camelot, leading him to a man who would become almost a father to him, and also to a man who would become his brother. It could all have easily been so different; he could have obeyed his feet and ran all the way back home. He could have allowed himself to be carried back to a simple life.
But he didn't. He'd moved forwards instead of back, and this was why Merlin often thought of his feet; feet that really did appear to have a mind of their own.
There were many times over the following years when Merlin would pause and consider those strange-looking body parts that were attached to his legs. He would curse them for their clumsiness; for tripping him up and making him look the fool. He would rub them wearily after a particularly long day, trying to ease the aches and pains; and he would urge them to move faster in times of danger.
Sometimes he would beg them to be quiet as mice; those times when he needed to remain hidden, those times when silence and stealth were essential. Times like when he had tried to help Freya...
He didn't like to think about Freya. It was too painful, too unjust, what had happened. His footsteps had echoed every single emotion that Merlin had felt during those painfully beautiful days. The light, almost skip of his feet when he'd first realised that he was in love; the slow and wary steps as he'd tentatively offered his help, love and protection to the woman who'd gripped at his heart so swiftly. The nervous, excited shuffling of his feet as they'd made plans for their escape; and the heavy, slow footfalls of despair as he'd carried his love to her death.
No, he did not like to think of Freya.
Nor did he like to think of numerous other times when his feet had taken him places where he'd had no wish to go. The steps that had moved him forward to stop Arthur sacrificing himself to the Other World; the steps that faltered when he'd seen Lancelot walk the path that Merlin was supposed to have taken.
The steps that had led him to a druid who would fill his mind with nightmarish visions of Arthur's death; and the steps that had taken him away from his King at the time when Arthur had needed him most. The steps that had seen him carrying his friend to his final resting place; steps that were heavier even than those that had plagued him when he'd said goodbye to his beautiful Freya.
Now, hundreds of years after these events had shaped his fate, hundreds of years since his life had been all colour and light, his footsteps were as weary and grey as his life had become. Every day that he walked past the haunting island of Avalon, he would feel as if his feet were glued to the floor, every step a struggle to take, every lift of his feet that dragged him forward pulling another small fragment of hope from his heart. Because the more the world around him changed, the more his life stayed the same.
And he was tired, so tired. Weary of waiting for something that showed no signs of happening, even after all the long years of patience. His feet were long past the ache of a hard day's work; they were worn to the bone, centuries of wandering having taken their toll.
The day when things changed began like any other of the days that he had awoken to far more often than any other person had any right to experience. He'd been gently pushed from his dreams of the past, slowly becoming aware that he was not in Camelot after all, and that Arthur, Gwen, Gaius, his mother – and everyone else he still missed so deeply – were no more than poignant ghosts in his memories.
He'd dragged himself reluctantly from his bed, had quickly showered and dressed, and shoved his feet ruthlessly into a pair of boots; boots that were so similar to the ones he had worn in his youth – worn, a little grubby, and so old that they moulded themselves comfortingly to him.
After grabbing an apple to gnaw at on his habitual pre-dawn walk, he'd set off on the familiar path that had been his daily route for several years. He followed the lane from his small cottage, and kept to the narrow road that led to the nearby motorway. Then, with the shelter of hedges that obscured his view of his surroundings for almost the entire length of his walk, he continued to place one foot in front of the other, noting the absence of a trail in his wake, and mourning the arrival of concrete so many years before. The cold, hard stone beneath his feet allowed no trace of his footsteps to show - like they'd never occurred; like they'd never even existed.
Like he sometimes felt that Arthur, Camelot, and magic itself had never existed.
It was all so disheartening; such a drag on his weary soul, pulling him further into the despair that had gradually deepened over the years until it had almost utterly consumed him. Almost. But not quite. And it was that not quite that kept him moving; kept him doggedly lifting his feet time and time again.
Only today it was different. Today he felt an echoing of that excitement that had filled him on that day so long ago, when he had first laid eyes on the city that would change his life.
It started in his stomach; that faint, fluttering sensation of nervous apprehension. Then the feeling moved up to his heart, making it beat just that little bit faster. He found himself breathing deeper, and fancied that he could smell the magic that his senses were picking up; the scent of wonder, hope, and a tentative joy.
When the hedges cleared and Avalon came into view, he paused as he always did, though this time he avoided looking at the feet which persistently tormented him with their daily need to take him past the source of his melancholy. Instead, he allowed his gaze to lift, and he turned to face the column of stone that represented his reason for living.
And Avalon glowed. Not brightly, like the burning haze of a midday sun, but the soft, muted glow of something magical; a glimmering silver that shrouded the island with a mystical light.
His feet once again did that change of direction that was somehow against his brain's command, and he found himself taking increasingly faster steps towards the shimmering glow of the island. The concrete beneath his feet melted away, becoming the long missed softness of grass mixed with mud. The hair and beard of his elderly form blew around his face, obscuring his vision now and again, making him brush away at them impatiently. Without thinking, he slowly blinked, and the years of his features melted way just as magically as the concrete had moments before.
The lake came into view, and the silvery glow became brighter, skimming the water's surface so that it rippled with light and beauty. Merlin's feet carried him on even further, and soon he was close enough to see the boat that was hovering on the edges of the lake; a boat that was centuries old, yet still looked pristine.
Merlin stopped for a moment, and fought against the almost itching sensation in the soles of his feet; they were eager to continue their journey, but he was so scared of being disappointed; terrified that his brain was playing tricks on him, that his magic had finally addled his brain after so many years of waiting.
The silver light of the magic gathered together to form a spotlight over the gently swaying boat, and reflected back tenfold from something contained within. Something silver and gold; something that had been given to the lake of Avalon shortly before Merlin had relinquished Arthur into its care...
Excalibur.
Merlin closed his eyes, not daring to believe, and he let instinct take over. He took a few steps forward; hesitant, faltering... ready at any moment to turn back and take flight, to run from the very real possibility that in his despair, he had conjured himself an impossible ending to his years of loneliness.
And then his foot gently collided with something, and he stopped. He heard a dull thud on the ground beside him, but could not find the courage to open his eyes and see what was in front of him. His other foot connected with whatever it was that had stopped his nervous walk only moments before, and he felt a gentle pressure on his shoulders.
His head dipped, and he frowned, eyes fluttering beneath their lids; too scared to open them, yet unable to keep them from doing so. At first he could not see anything beyond the moisture that was clouding his vision; there was something silvery, and something brown, and in the background there was a fuzzy green that he realised must have been the grass that he was standing upon.
The brown and silvery somethings became clearer, and they morphed into two pairs of feet that were standing toe to toe, inches away from the fallen Excalibur, which was lying discarded on the dew-covered grass that surrounded them.
Merlin raised his eyes inch by agonising inch, not daring to blink – not daring to breathe – and absorbed all of the details that fairly screamed at him, telling him that he was not imagining things, that Arthur was here – finally here – and that he could start to live again.
The shine of the armour, the sturdiness of Arthur's body, the strength of the grip on Merlin's shoulders; all things that should have told him that he was not dreaming, that this was real.
But he still could not believe it.
And then his eyes met the blue of his friend's, and the glow of affection in them was enough for Merlin's eyes to close again, and for him to pull in a steadying breath.
"Are you real?" he whispered.
His question was met with silence, and he swayed on the spot at the weight of his disappointment, only to find himself steadied again by the fingers that still gripped his shoulders; fingers that gave a reassuring squeeze before firmly spinning Merlin around.
Surprised by the move, Merlin's eyes flew open in time to see Arthur grab Excalibur from the floor, and rest it casually over his shoulder. Then the former King of Camelot beamed at him, and flung a brotherly arm around Merlin's shoulders, encouraging him to walk away from the lake that was still shimmering with that wonderful silvery light.
The King and his friend walked slowly away, their steps unhurried, and their mirroring expressions of peace rivalling the glow of the magical lake. Merlin glanced over his shoulder, and felt his face stretch into a wonderful, heart lifting smile.
"Look, Arthur," he breathed.
The King followed the direction of Merlin's gaze, and frowned for a moment, before an answering smile of understanding settled upon his features.
Twin sets of footprints were imprinted on the sodden earth, and the sight of them was the final proof that Merlin needed to finally believe what his heart hadn't fully trusted. Merlin's footprints, no longer invisible on cold, grey stone, but blindingly obvious against the muddy grass, and perfectly parallel to the echoes of Arthur's sturdy steps.
Footsteps. Such simple things; yet so much more than the act of placing one foot in front of the other; Merlin didn't think he had even seen anything more beautiful in his life.
"Come on, Arthur" he said softly. "Let's go home."