Reblog If You Think It’s Okay To Platonically Say “I Love You” To Your Friends

Gwen & Merlin | Teen & Up | No Archive Warnings Apply | Word Count: 500

Post-Canon | Ghosts | Grief & Mourning | Immortal Merlin

For @merlinmicrofic with the dialogue prompt "almost" and the @tavernfest Merlin Horror Month 2024

An elderly Gwen summons Merlin to Camelot on Samhain. Their old friends walk the Earth again for a night.

☾ ☾ ☾

She was sitting by the fire in the chambers she had once shared with her husband. The flames sputtered in the grate, attacked by the late autumn winds. Upon the hearth there were food offerings; it was Samhain, the eve of the night the dead woke from their sleep and roamed the Earth once again.

“Merlin,” Gwen called to him softly, her eyes shining and a little cloudy in the light, evidence of the cataracts laying claim to them. She stretched out her hand and he hobbled over with his staff and took it. It was soft, wrinkled, but strong. 

Gwen had received him earlier in the throne room but this, with the night blackening the windows, was when they could truly speak. 

He sat down groaningly beside her. Immediately, she leaned towards him in her chair and poked his knee. “I heard a rumour.” 

He leaned as well. “A rumour?” he croaked. 

“I’m told that you're not as you appear to be. That you…” she seemed to search for the words. “They say nature has not taken hold of you as it has me.” 

He opened his mouth but she stopped him.

“Let me see you as you really are... Please.” 

He changed, letting go of the glamour he had assumed. 

By the way she reached out, he knew she couldn’t help it. She cupped his unbearded face, swiped a thumb over his cheek like there was a tear there just as her own eyes filled. 

“It’s like…” she trailed off in wonder. 

“Seeing a ghost?” he guessed. 

“No,” she shook her head, retracting her hand. “No. I should know… I called you here because-” 

There was a knock at the door. 

She cleared her throat, emotion leaving her voice. “Come in.” 

A knight entered.

“Is it time?” she asked.

“Almost.” 

“Help an old woman up, Merlin?” 

They were on the ramparts of the outer walls, it had been a struggle to get up here, but Gwen, now bundled in Merlin’s cloak, had been singularly determined.

It was a full moon but the night was choked with mist. 

Merlin’s magic prickled, beyond the walls something had stepped back onto the mortal plane. 

He tried again to implore her to return to the palace. “Gwen, it's Samhain, we shouldn’t-” 

“Just… Watch.” 

He grimaced but did as his queen bid. 

A horse whinnied faintly, like the tail end of an echo. From the mist, three caped figures on horseback were given form. Ceremonial Camelot banners, washed grey by the night, waved silently in a non-existent wind above them. Their shape, their faces, tilted up, serene, their eyes on the queen – Merlin startled. “It’s-!”

“Gwaine… Lancelot… and Elyan,” she finished, her voice breaking more with each name. 

“But..? Gods, why-?”

“They came last year, and the year before that,” she said, breathing. She drew her borrowed cloak closer. “I know now. They're waiting for me.” 

In Avalon his friends would be together again. Death had never been kinder, and fate more gruel. 

Armored whump

- The heavy clunk of a Whumpee in armor brought to their knees.

- A sword slammed into the ground in an attempt to keep themself from falling right over.

- Arms trembling as they try to keep themself up, the weight of their armor pushing them further down, bearing on their bruises.

- They're already succumbing to gravity. They're panting, barely holding on, leaning heavily on their sword, or their staff, their lance.

- Making the effort to use it to push themself to their feet again, pulling the sword back out of the ground, swooshing their lance as they find the strength for another round.

- The sound of a sword clanking against stone when it's twirled out of their grip or when they no longer have the strength to hold it.

- A sword kicked away. Or worse, a heavy boot crunching down on it just as Whumpee manages to close a hand around the hilt.

- The soft clinking sounds of defeat drawing nearer when the enemy approaches slowly, fully aware Whumpee is already defeated. Metal crunches with each step. Armor jingles with his soft movements, when he crouches down in front of Whumpee.

- The tip of a sword scratching along over metal, teasing over their chest plates until it finally finds the weak spot of the armor and slowly pushes through.

- Also, armor is heavy :) Give me exhausted armored characters, dragging themself along. They are supposed to stay ahead of the rest, be their shield... but every battle and by now every step has been wearing on them. And it won't take long before they'll just collapse.

touching grass isn't enough we should be staging small community productions of shakespeare

Sliding my timely fic into the reblogs here. Credit for the prompt goes to @futurepastme

Love Hold You 'til the Morning Sun

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61994113/chapters/158533081

Teen and Up | No archive warnings

At the whims of his magic and the demands of the world's various turnings, sleep never came easily to Merlin, that is, until he met Arthur.

Or

Lifelong insomniac Merlin discovers that he sleeps better next to Arthur, and better still in his arms.

You cannot convince me that Merlin and Arthur didn’t cuddle on trips through the forest. Like come on, Arthur literally sleeps holding his pillows and you cannot convince me Merlin doesn’t run cold in his sleep. There’s no way they didn’t cuddle, even if they didn’t mean too, they definitely woke up curled around each other. They never spoke about it, but it just got to the point where they’d place their cots right next to each other because they knew they’d end up snuggling at some point through the night.

Llama Uther AU

Where everything's the same except Uther's a llama.

"So the king, he really is-"

"Yes Merlin, but I wouldn't recommend bringing it up while you're here."

"But Gaius, h-"

"Uther punished many magic users, including those who were unfortunate enough to be visiting here. One particular one cursed him to be a Llama before the fire overtook her."

"And the curse is unbreakable?"

"Oh no. Anyone with a basic knowledge on curses and magic could break it."

"Then why?"

"Because that would require magic. And the King knows that."

Observances

Merlin/Arthur | Mature | No Archive Warnings Apply | Word Count: 373

Historical AU | Festivals | Prophecies | Second Person POV (Merlin)

For the @merlinmicrofic prompts "feast" and "new year."

Will post to Ao3 once it's back up.

Arthur's halls are decorated for the birth of the sun, Saturnalia was a sennight ago, and you saw an ominous sign this morning in the movement of the birds.

small tw: for animal (bird) death

☾ ☾ ☾

Arthur’s hall is decorated with yew branches. Up and down the benches there is elaborate food upon decorated plates of a dull silver that he told you was called pewter. His hounds whine and beg for scraps from the revellers, having grown bored of the swan wing that had been tossed to them. Now it lay on the straw strewn floor, gnarled and upsetting. 

Your eyes are on him, but everyone’s eyes are on him, they always are. Warlord, lord, king. Tonight he wears an abolla that is a red as rich as blood (and you’ve seen plenty of blood, by now). His hair and eyes are pale against the colour but not diminished by them. 

But his eyes are on you. They shouldn't be on you, not as much as they are, they need not ever be on you, but they are. You’re a servant, what’s more you are of the Silures, reviled by his father, yet his eyes have been on you since you were crowned with oak leaves for saving his life.

What a strange mix of observances that he claims as his own. 

On Saturnalia he said that you could do anything, so you sat in his lap and had him feed you figs and almonds with his fingers.

But that was a sennight ago, now above his chair there is a bower of willow and ivy, now he raises his cup and you go to his side to pour him grape wine from across the sea. 

He would put you to death for your aurgury this morning. It was the flight of the hedge sparrows that alerted you just a breath before it happened; a peregrine claimed an ouzel, too slow to retreat to the coppice, right before your eyes. There are signs in everything, you are finding, even the strange prognostications of the Romans. Ouzel cock, black druid, guide to the otherworld. Your people go unmarked in death as they do in life. There are few left, even, to cry your name. Fewer still will survive to see the spring.  

The fire is making you sweat, causing the woad staining your arms to run. 

His cup goes up, the room stills.

“The sun is reborn,” Arthur says.