[A/N: A shorter one this time. Enjoy!]
Oh, to be quietly insane enough to trust.
Who, in their right mind, trusts someone they don't know? Does anyone completely know themself? Would you trust others if you cannot trust yourself?
That is what Merlin thinks, now. History proves that when he trusts someone, they die or leave or try to kill him. So far, it has not happened with the prince.
Though it is not up to him, Merlin hopes Arthur trusts him.
Though it may be through a false view of him, Merlin hopes that Arthur can confide in him. That is why he sits on the floor against the stone railing, before the throne room.
A paper sits in his pocket, weighing down his jacket with an invisible force. It is mostly the reason behind it all, the guilt of knowing that this was the correct spell, and the hope of Arthur coming around to see what magic is. That is what keeps him still, what keeps his mind steadily unsteady, and what pushes him every difficult moment.
The importance of the spell was to determine a sorcerer, Merlin himself, was good or bad. It was, it truly was a good spell– but was it good enough to prove innocence? To prove not guilty?
Merlin shakes his head from his knees, tired but determined to see this through, the night and the translation of the spell.
What a mess.
He stares at the wall opposite the doors. They open, streaming sunlight in through the windows. Arthur is done.
"Merlin?"
He turns to see Arthur standing over him, calm and composed, almost serene. Arthur's eyes look toward the light flooding in. It's bright. It's warm. All the edges of his face are sharpened with the sun rising from its tomb on the horizon.
Contemplative, Arthur just notes the time. "It is a new day."
Every day the sun dies just to rise anew. There is nothing to stop the movement of the cosmos.
The servant stands, legs wobbling to lift him up.
"You been here all night?" This is asked from the son of a monarch, who grew up lonely. He had no friends before Merlin, and it's still unbelievable that he does now. So, this action is regarded well by Arthur.
Merlin knows he is friends with Arthur. This was a thoughtless action. Of course, he was here all night. Arthur is the focal point of his destiny, and Merlin cannot handle leaving anything unattended.
"I didn't want you to feel that you were alone." He really didn't want to feel alone either. Not like when his father died. No, not like that.
Not when Arthur doesn't even know.
"You're a loyal friend, Merlin." They trade looks. It's too introspective, now. "You must be hungry?"
"Starving."
"Me too... Come on. You can make us some breakfast."
.oOo.
It's only after eating that Merlin mentions the task he was given.
He spreads out papers on a table, messing with their order and positions for a while. Then he gathered his courage. "You asked me to translate the... the thing." Yeah, yeah. He could have said magic, but Arthur is still very anxiety-ridden with that kind of word.
"I did, indeed, Merlin." He's standing near his armoire, holding a shirt.
"With badgering Gaius– only a little," There's a look from Arthur, meaning he knows that was a total lie. "I am mostly," No. Not mostly. "I am entirely sure that this spell is meant for healing."
And Arthur waves for him to carry on, coming forward to see the translation work. Oh, and how those steps did not falter. How did his feet not even hesitate to move forward?
There are notes, all scattered on pages, but one clarified and adjusted paper that Merlin pushes.
Written in plainly and clearly, it reads:
Efencume ætgædre, eala gastas cræft ige: gestrice þis lic forod
Merlin is careful not to say any of the words at length, in fear of actually doing something.
"The first part, uh.. Efencume and ætgædre ... mean to come together and assemble." He slides his thumb along his knuckles, nervous about doing this wrong and dealing with the touchy situation. "This part, eala gastas.." He gives himself a pause with some mispronouncing because he doesn't want to cast the spell at all. It would not be good to show gold eyes now. " Cræft ige refers to someone's soul along with their might, their courage."
Arthur looks intrigued, nodding for him to continue.
"Last part, gestrice þis lic forod, says to knit or mend this broken body."
He looks up from the page one last time, straight at Arthur. He wants him to understand that this spell is good, so desperately. "Altogether, it means to come together, spirits, breath, and being, together with your might and skill: knit and mend this broken body."
All the weight is being pulled from him. It's in the air, in the very room.
Arthur stares at the words, trying to pull them from their paper.
What does this mean for him? The sorcerer had been using good words, goodwill, and had trusted him.
But, then why did his father still–?
The son of the dead king, lost, looks daring as he peers up at Merlin.
"I have to make good with the sorcerer when I can."
It's bold eyes that meet Arthur's, still wary for anything in reaction.
Whatever Merlin sees, it feels determined and broad. Arthur is certain of his choice.
Merlin nods fervently, slightly curving his lips, knowing something– something finally has gone his way. Something is getting better.
A sorcerer is on Arthur's good side.
Arthur potentially sees good in a magic-user.
.oOo.
There is a day when the Throne Room has but two people, one of them dead. The next, it is full of people, alive and excited for something new.
The people pack inside, courtiers, servants, and more who bow as Arthur walks toward the throne.
It's anticipation that fills the room, each step toward the head of the room making each person's heart thump harder.
All people, new or old, friends and family, gaze up at the stand.
Merlin, Gaius, Gwen, Percival, Sir Leon, Gwaine, and Elyan, the many the befriended Merlin (and therefore Arthur) all stand together.
Arthur kneels.
Geoffrey of Monmouth, with the crown in his hands, asks him to promise and swear to govern rightly.
It isn't a choice to him, no.
Arthur is meant to be king. From birth to blood and through the twisted fate that rests upon man, Arthur could only accept and bear this.
"Then by the sacred laws vested in me, I crown you Arthur, King of Camelot!" A crown.
Arthur stands, looking out over his people. A crown upon Arthur's head.
Long live the king.
The crowd in the court.
Long live the king.
A son now in his father's place.
Long live the King!
YOU ARE READING
Mostly because dead people don't talk back
FanfictionVery often and sometimes a bit too many times for his taste, Gwaine found himself in very unique situations when near to Merlin. The smell of blood and dirt smothered his senses, and Gwaine couldn't get up the energy to remove himself from this sit...
